


Faded Epitaphs (Marching Onwards)

by patria_mori



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-26 18:03:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 37,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/652958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patria_mori/pseuds/patria_mori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Immortality was never something Arthur Pendragon had wanted. Merlin didn't give him that choice. As the rest of the world reincarnates, blissfully oblivious, Arthur continues, waiting for the one man who never came back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faded Epitaphs (Marching Onwards)

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a character study excerise after remembering a fanvideo by raselased (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-mztW5QTiAE) Since I started writing with a broken memory of the clip, it doesn't follow it to frame, but it was a good starting place. Also, I only followed up to a certain point in the series cannon (read: before the Lancelot debacle) before substituting the more traditional narrative as backstory.
> 
> My beta seems to have fallen off the face of the earth, so I do apologise for any errors in advance.

**::**

_"Merlin, what have you done?"_

It was the last thing he said to Merlin, air feeling foreign in his lungs and feeling the cold, the damp, of blood that had once been warm. Merlin had been smiling. Not the reassuring smile he gave in his youth, or even the indulgent smile of his later years. No, it was the smile that told Arthur that Merlin had gone off and done something beyond consideration, beyond stupid and beyond _Arthur_.

Merlin had smiled, pressed his forehead firmly against Arthur's and was gone without a word; a quickly retreating form across a field of cold bodies and tattered pennants.

Hands were on him then, the hands of a soldier, pulling back his torn mail and prising off the soaked cloth gambeson. He remembered the pause before calloused fingers pressed against his unmarked skin; the wipe of hands that had never trained to be gentle smearing blood as they quested for a source no longer there to find.

"Stop him," Arthur remembers saying, his head swimming as his body tried to remember what it was meant for. He was lighter, changing and struggling to remain awake.

"We thought you were dead, sire," it was Bedievere's voice. Bedievere, who far preferred to spend time with his hounds and his daughters than mucking about with a sword.

"I was," Arthur had replied before a bout of coughs had him curled in on himself even as he tried to push to his feet. "Where is he?"

"Who, sire?"

Bedievere couldn't have missed him, Arthur had known through his haze, allowing the man to slip an arm under his and haul Arthur to his feet. He knew even then that he was too late. 

"Find me a horse."

The man had protested, citing injury and weakness, lingering soldiers and all manner of excuses not to remount his king. Arthur had grit his teeth and staggered alongside Bedievere. If the man had noticed the mantle of time slowly slipping from his king, he said nothing. It was the last time Bedievere ever saw him.

He didn't often have nightmares about that day any longer, and when he did, upon waking it wasn't with the cold sweat and panic that had gripped him for months, years, after. Now, it was with a quiet dullness that ached beneath his breastbone, staring up at the white ceiling of his flat trying to cling to the memories. Merlin's eyes had been blue. He had a small scar across the nape of his neck, and a larger one over his breastbone. His forehead had been cool against Arthur's, and though Bedievere may not have seen him, Merlin's weight had been like an anchor.

King Arthur Pendragon had died on that field and the world had marched on without him.

He was a doctorate student now. It was his fifth doctorate - his second D.Phil from Oxford. He'd been feeling nostalgic when he'd enrolled.

Arthur side-stepped a stack of Latin course books as he rummaged through his closet, pulling out pieces of his gym kit and tossing them on the bed. Latin wasn't his current discipline - that was reserved for literature studies, though he'd also weighed both botany and zoology as viable options - but he had been offered a tutor position in Latin for Christ Church which he had accepted in a moment of weakness. The professor was decent with translation and seemed utterly fascinated at having someone's Arthur's age that could carry on a fluent conversation in the language; called him an ‘Oxford Man’, through and through. She had laughed when she'd asked where he'd studied and, knowing it had little consequence now, he'd answered truthfully. New souls or old, they never remembered. 

"Geoffrey of Monmouth has my regards, then, for sending me such a well-learned man. Pity you chose English; you could have had my job in a few years!" She was French, the Latin Classics professor, and had fought long and hard to gain her position on the Oxford staff. Maureen Lafayette. Once upon a time, she had been his sister.

He had smiled, burying his face in the porcelain cup held in hands that didn't quite shake. Over the years he'd seen people he remembered on occasion, reborn into life as doctors, soldiers, coal miners. Once, memorably, he'd seen a young Leon stuffed in a dress and painted garishly onstage reciting Ophelia in the spring. He'd never much liked the play after that. 

Leon had called him a boorish aristocrat with more money than taste. Arthur had slipped him a pouch of coins and a new walking stick topped in gold.

They had immigrated and emigrated, they had vacationed in Britain, fought in the Balkans and they had died at sea and all the while Arthur had sat in old Albion, envious of their freedoms. He kept up with them when he could; the lives he happened across, filling his time with their small triumphs and losses. Guinevere was currently the General Director at a steel manufacturer's in America. Percival was playing goal keep for Fulham.

Arthur had tried teaching university once, in the sixties. He'd lasted eight years before he'd had to move on - when his fellow professors had commented once too often on his youth and he'd broken down from the resurgence of what his colleagues called 'Arthurian Idealism'. He'd wanted to leave it all behind - get as far away from anywhere that had ever heard of Guinevere, or Excalibur or the Lady of Shallott.

Instead, he headed north, setting up in Dundee as Art Pendergast, small firm accountant. 

Arthur had explored every last inch of his kingdom and his prison and did what he could to keep it whole. The wars he had seen had been the worst, knowing the people of this new Albion were fighting and dying against the French and the Spanish, the Germans and Italians, somewhere off beyond his reach. So he did what he could within his reach as the dead count continued to mount. As the 'war with France' became the Hundred Years War; as the ‘Great War to end all wars’ became merely the precursor to the Second World War. It was old hatreds and repetitive arguments, the lot of them.

New was difficult to define in Britain at large.

His trainers were new - one of the few things in his life that were. He'd ruined the last pair the week before in the Cherwell, though really they had been a lost cause for months. He’d bought them sometime in the nineties, so he supposed they really were past due for replacing. Somewhere he was certain he still had a pair of shirts leftover from Victoria's rule and a cap from that terrible period of Lancasters and Yorks and Lancasters and Yorks. Perhaps it was coming on time to clear out one of his storage lockers, fence a few antiques gathering dust.

Everything stowed, he pulled on a sports jacket over his jumper and slung his kit over his head - with any luck his old bike will have survived the storm last night and save him the hike over to Iffley. He’d have to remember to stop leaving it outside the flat.

**ooOOoo**

The stretch and pull of muscles was a familiar comfort. Equipment had changed; tighter, but lighter and infinitely cooler on a summer day and no need to joke - half seriously - about needing to be cut out of it.

Arthur needed the distraction that fighting brought. He always had. He needed to lose himself in the motions, the need to focus so completely on nothing more than survival, of forcing his problems to yield as surely as his opponent. He'd like to say that he had never lost a match, regardless of the years between _then_ and _now_ , but he had. Not often, but enough to remind him to be careful. That even Arthur could get sloppy, overconfident.

In his darker moods, he would admit that he took up bare-knuckle boxing this time around not because of the challenge, the rush, the dubious infamy of what had been forced underground. He would admit he took it up to feel skin spilt beneath his swings. To take away that layer of padding and safety. To put himself so far out there that Arthur remembered what it was like to fight for his life and not for the points. It was what led him to back alley duels in Elizabeth's Kingdom, learning how to dart fast and sting, relying on speed over strength. He'd come to acknowledge that even a man like Merlin may have had an aptitude for the rapier if given a chance. The swell of memories had been too much then and Arthur had avoided accepting sword duels for years after realizing that. It wasn't that difficult; the trend lasted far less time in England than it did on the continent.

It also meant he didn't need to explain why he walked away from every last battle, whether his opponent had landed a good hit or no.

What Arthur _could_ say was that he hadn't lost in a long while. He certainly hadn't lost in this lifetime. He was one of the few that remembered what it was to be trained for battlegrounds; look a man in the eyes as he died and the force behind the blow that had dealt it. When he fought, he could feel for that brief moment the weight of his armour and the sound of steel. His comrades watching from the stands. Merlin grinning child-like by the tents. It was something he needed to hang onto.

"I've a match lined up for you," Bennett said in a low voice as Arthur dragged a towel over his face. He gave himself a moment in the dark of the cotton before surfacing.

Arthur gave Bennett a long look. He was a weasel of a man - middle-aged and thinning hair. _Years_ he had been whispering in the ears of promising young boxers as the coach at the university's amateur club, poaching students for his gambling ring. He'd never been caught; his protégés hadn't always been so lucky. Most had been sent down for their involvement. Arthur knew the moment he was finished with this lifestyle he had no compunction against dragging the man down on his way out - but as it stood, it was the easiest way to fight short of starting a bar brawl.

"You're too good to be having second thoughts now, Arty," Bennett wheedled. "They've already started bookings."

Arthur wondered vaguely if the man would still speak with such entitlement if he knew how many men had met their end through Arthur. If Bennett understood just how inconsequential he, the matches, the whole damn life Arthur was playing at really was.

"Arthur, mate -"

"When?" The man was grinning out the side of Arthur's vision, smug and proud and more than a little bit eager. This was the sort he fought for now, _defended_ , Arthur thought grimly, grip tight on the speed bag. This was his Albion.

"You had me worried I'd be out a few quid. Friday night, Wilson's place up on Marston Ferry."

"Seven."

"They've already -"

"I'm tutoring some Freshers until half-five. Seven," he said firmly.

Bennett's smirk had nearly faded, but then he was used to Arthur's stubborn refusal to bend. Arthur gave himself responsibilities, even now, and he fully intended to keep them. "You don't want to know the lad's name?"

"Don't need to." Arthur stripped down his fists, balling the wraps together. "If you set it up, he's bound to be strong as an ox and built like a bear. And no doubt thick as pottage."

**ooOOoo**

"You are far too young to be looking like that," Maureen's voice was stern from where she sat by the arched window, eyes trained on the old tome before her in the slanting light.

Arthur glanced at her from his position at the opposite pane. There were times he could see the woman she had once been, the iron centre buried beneath that had been forced to build itself like diamond under the weight of Uther's reign. She had children in this life. A doctor in Brussels and a notary in Reims. Three grandchildren. He'd seen pictures once, when he'd been invited for supper months before.

"I thought you said I was too old before," Arthur responded absently. "Mastering dead languages and having tea with grandmothers."

"An intelligent man would take that as advice to live in the present. It is a beautiful day out, you should be out on the river with the rest of the young men wooing their companions." Maureen offered him a knowing smile, one finger holding her place on the manuscript. "I hear Oriel's boat and Christchurch are pulling a mock race later in the day. Get out there, meet someone."

"Your Freshers have taken to trailing me, Lafayette," Arthur said dryly. "I think your company and the Bod are the places I am safest."

" _With a strange majesty that the heathen horde Remembered when all were overwhelmed; And made of them a legend, to their chief, Arthur_ ," she quoted with a flourish. "You forget how it felt to have a guidepost in the darkness. You help them stay aloft and you're not half bad to look at; of course they're going to idolize you."

"I didn't know you knew Francis Young."

"I know many things, it's one of my endearing qualities for you British types. Besides, it would be empty criticism if I didn't know the discipline I mocked, wouldn't you say?"

"Come for a drink with me," Arthur said on impulse. If this was all he had left, this near-sighted woman with a quick wit and greying hair, well, he would take it; he would be in her life for as long as she would let him. She was a part of his Albion too.

"My husband may be dead, Arthur Penn, but he is not forgotten," she said with an amused laugh. "I don't think you're ready for grandchildren just yet."

"I don't think you could keep up with me," Arthur returned. "Come, we'll go to the _Head of the River_. I'll buy you whiskey and speak of Byron and Shelley and you can drink and watch for the boats to make their turns while ignoring my poor English hardships."

"You are an incorrigible brat." Arthur grinned as she closed her book. He took it from her, helping Maureen into her grass-green trench and picking up the accompanying stack of reference papers she had gathered. "At least you make a passable packhorse." 

"One of my endearing qualities for you French types."

**ooOOoo**

"Meum est propositum in taberna mori, ut sint vina proxima morientis ori," Maureen said as she raised her glass in salute. _My plan is to die in a pub so that I'll have a drink close to my lips as I fade away._

"Sit Deus propitius huic potatori," Arthur returned to her delight. _May God be merciful to this drunkard._

They had cut through Magpie Lane on their way to the inn's pub, Maureen muttering about children and their bicycles as Arthur kept pace, books under one arm. The Christ Church back lot was full of tourists standing impatient amidst the construction on the south facade. Maureen had pinched his arm, warning him not to draw their attention. "Like ravenous beasts," she had said as they gave a wide berth. Arthur would have enrolled through one of the smaller colleges specifically to avoid the clusters of people who gathered like clockwork in the afternoon, rain or shine, but the old building with its scrolls and stonework inside reminded him of home. At the time, nostalgia had out won seclusion. 

Even living off campus, Arthur still had to remind himself upon hearing the Tom Bell in the evenings there was no porter ready to lock him out at night. His last stay at Oxford had earned him one too many stern lectures from surly old gatesmen.

"Where were you when I was your age?" Maureen mused in the shade of dark square umbrellas, the river Isis to her left. "Nothing seems to throw you."

"You'll have to do better than dragging out 'the Archpoet' and Young." 

"Young is as acceptable as any poet to quote. I have others, you know," said Maureen.

"I know. Your Classics lectures are rife with modern poetic reference. I think you do it on purpose, ranting about our department while making your students spend hours tracing back your references."

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, watching the river and the slow passing boats. He should get a houseboat when he finally moved on, Arthur contemplated, hitch up somewhere along the Thames. He could keep a small garden on the roof. So long as he stayed to the rivers the Fates might be kind. He could probably live for decades as a hermit without much interaction from the authorities or locals.

"Our boys look in top form, this year, even the House boats," Maureen said as the Oriel boat made a wide turn nearby. "If they don't best the lads from Cambridge I'll be surprised."

Arthur smirked into his pint. "The good old rivalry. All these years and still I'm not sure I understand it, manufactured nonsense."

"Don't you let them hear you say it," Maureen warned. "The British culture needs it; the rivalry is part of who they are. Have faith that it is as it is meant to be."

"Don't tell me you approve of basing faith on falsities; half of what you teach or more is scriptures and fiction and yet you've never once argued the ideologies as truth. Is Maureen Lafayette a closet Catholic? It would explain your Latin, certainly." 

"Truth and falsity imply combination and separation."

"If you're going to quote Aristotle, have the decency to use Greek," Arthur said absently before holding up a hand in deference at Maureen's raised brow. "By all means..."

"Sometimes the things we rely upon exist only because we need them to," Maureen argued. "If the man born to Mary was the son of God or merely a man who had a compelling way of life, it doesn't change the essence of Christianity; the message the authors were trying to convey. The central character is merely a vessel for it. Just the same, King Arthur never walked these lands and yet he is bound to them tighter than any - the British need him. The Christian King, the Dragon of Gwent, the Scottish warrior - no matter the details, their king is the spirit of this isle and will remain so, falsity or no. You cannot simply separate the lies from the overarching truths. Oxford competes with Cambridge because it gives focus and something worth striving for, as faith, as myth."

A shout went up from the river and Arthur hooked an arm over the back of his wooden chair, leaning out towards the water. A punter had lost hold of his pole, careening momentarily as his friends harangued him good-naturedly from the docks. "You sound confident of that, of your dismissal."

"Dismissal of what?"

"King Arthur."

"Really, Mr. Penn. King Arthur? I knew you English Literature types were romantics, but history speaks for itself. Where does he fit, who finally took his throne? Did he truly wrestle giants and march armies into Rome?" Maureen shot him a wry smile. "Besides, we French gave you your courtly knights, you merely embellished them. Now a farm herder’s son - _that_ I could believe in."

"Eleanor's court did do quite a number on the tales, didn't they," he agreed amiably. Maureen frowned, knowing in her own way that he was deflecting. She was right, in her way - Morgana had helped erase Camelot with her own hands as Mordred tore it stone from stone. And Arthur - Arthur left his Kingdom to its fate; to the younger generation who slowly wiped it from history.

"Arthur the Arthurian?" A slow smile was cracking across her face. "That really is too much. And here I thought you were sensible despite your discipline."

Arthur took a long pull of ale. "I've always been more of a Robin Hood lad."

"Good man, at least he has some historical precedent to argue against. A man is easier to slot into place than a King."

He had nothing to say to that so he called for another pint, Maureen's keen eyes trained on him all the while.

**ooOOoo**

The first time Arthur and Guinevere fought, it had been Merlin who had found him hiding out on the parapets and staring out across the distant hills. 

Merlin hadn't claimed it wasn't his fault or Guinevere's. He hadn't said 'everyone goes through rough patches'. He hadn't tried to distract Arthur with small talk about the forest or the knights or the kitchen gossip like he may once have. Merlin hadn't said anything.

For two hours, Merlin had stood at his shoulder, eyes on the horizon without uttering a sound.

When Arthur descended and night had fallen, there was a warm meal waiting for him in Merlin's chambers and he knew without asking that the other man had made Arthur's excuses to the court.

Merlin had spent the evening reading in the window, his small blue orb listing lazily overhead.

The large bed Merlin had been so pleased at receiving was freshly made up in Pendragon red, as clear an invitation at sanctuary that night as Merlin would ever give. Arthur was sorely tempted to curl up and sleep, tucked safely away in that quiet corner of the castle; Merlin hadn't commented when Arthur had given him a small smile, retiring to the king's chambers instead.

A man could hide; the king could not.

The fight had been about a silly thing, Arthur had thought at the time. Gwen was having difficulty adapting to life as a queen and he had known she still thought of Lancelot and what they might have had. Really, that fight had been the start of admitting what they both already knew. Gwen was the only choice Arthur had at giving Camelot the queen it deserved. She was strong and kind and sensible. Fair, beautiful. In her heart she loved the king Arthur could be, was, but she loved the man she saw in Lancelot. She wanted to be Arthur’s queen, not his wife. By the time they both had acknowledged it, the time to make a difference was long past.

Since then, Arthur had only married twice for the social convenience it offered him and once to offer protection. He had never sired any children. Really, he wasn't certain he _could_ father a child with what Merlin had done to him, but he'd never felt the need to try for his own and his wives had thanked him for it. He'd never stayed with them longer than a decade and a half and made sure they knew it before they swore vows. Each had received a sizable fortune when he disappeared. He had never remarried Gwen.

He had one night stands now and again. Rarely, but a man could only take so much sometimes - sometimes the only solution to his troubles was to get roaring drunk and pretend he wasn't centuries out of time. That they were all together, the lot of them, Gwaine and Lancelot and Elyan and everyone at the _Rising Sun_ drinking the cellar dry _._ Afterwards, Gwen would disappear upstairs with Lancelot, all knowing smiles and sure touches like they were _meant_ to be. It would be _Merlin_ that would bundle Arthur out the door, not some blonde tart hailing a cab or a hansom, and they would return to Merlin's chambers, not an estate home in Sheffield or a dingy flat dolled up with dreary attempts at opulence. It would still be there in the centre - that perfectly made bed in Pendragon red as though that one night was preserved, that one sanctuary. 

On those nights, he would make himself forget that he could never go back. Forget Merlin wasn't there to catch him when he stumbled down alleyways when sane men were abed. Forget he had never said a word to Merlin about maybe thinking they might have been good, and forget that the body pressed to Arthur's didn't know a damn thing about cleaning armour. Blind drunk made it easier to forget he was alone because of a man who once had a bad habit of trading his life for Arthur's.

Arthur had been around enough women - and men - to know when they were starting to get ideas; when they were starting to look at him in that speculative way, and started bolstering their courage or edging on their friends. He knew by the end of the next week two of the girls he tutored for Maureen's Latin course would begin their overtures. Arthur gave the young ginger lad until the end of term. That boy was waiting to see the results of the others before he took the risk; he was a strategist and a little bit conniving for Arthur's taste.

He knew without a doubt he wouldn't pick up with any of them.

"De integro. Again from the top," Arthur ran a tired hand through his hair, staring at the students sitting in the small circle of armchairs. They were reciting verb declensions again. "And subjunctive active imperfect. _Scire_."

He never understood why people found Latin so _difficult.  
_

**ooOOoo**

_May I enquire where His Highness spent the night?  
_ _  
_ _In a ditch.  
_ __  
Elyan's – Elijah, now - great grandson shuffled back to the man in the long dirty trenchcoat, hands clutching at the bowler hat atop his head.

_A ditch! Where?_

The sun was just past noon above the quadrangle that had been appropriated for the Drama Society's stage and Arthur sat near the back, orange program pamphlet in hand. A small portion of him still viewed the boy as his own great grand nephew, however many times removed. Merlin would have liked him. Joseph. The boy had grown up in Florida, played American football. He was in Oxford as an international student studying foreign relations but had picked up with the Drama Society as a Fresher.

It wasn't often the Society staged much else than Shakespeare - if it had been the Bard, Arthur likely would have given it a miss, Joseph or no - he'd seen the catalogue of the man's work so frequently he could recite it by heart. Thankfully for him, this year they'd pick up the Irish Beckett.

Down the street, where rugby lads were drumming up support for the Blues and tour guides were on the pull for visitors, had been a sign, handmade. 1pm Waiting for Godot, £3. Arthur had ducked through the gate at quarter to, just in time to catch the students pulling the lone black card tree into place.

A country road, a tree.

 _Ah, you're sure it was here?  
_ _  
_ _What?  
_ _  
_ _That we're to wait.  
_ _  
_ _He said by the tree. Do you see any others?_  
  
It wasn't a willow tree, dead or otherwise. It was an old oak they had drawn, silhouetted against a blank white drop. Arthur wasn't certain the type of tree really mattered, to the point of the play or even if the characters themselves could tell the difference.

There had been a great old oak just on the border of the north training field in Camelot, and Arthur could still remember watching Merlin and Gwen lying beneath it in the heat of summer as he drilled his men. They were waiting for him, as they always did on days like that, to have pity on the knights and let them run off into the shade. Merlin would have secreted away a cask of mead from the cellars, kept cold with no little use of judicial magic, and Gwen a basket of summer tarts. They would stay out until the sun dipped low on the horizon, out of sight of the castle, and Arthur would forget for a time that Morgana was gone or that Gwen's eyes strayed too often towards the west when Lancelot had gone off on patrol.

 _I can't go on like this.  
_ _  
_ _That's what you think.  
_ _  
_ _If we parted? That might be better for us.  
_ _  
_ _We'll hang ourselves tomorrow. Unless Godot comes.  
_ _  
_ _And if he comes?  
_ _  
_ _We'll be saved._  
  
Arthur stood along with the handful of others in the audience, a gentle applause in the afternoon air as Joseph and his mates took their bows. It was nearing half two and storm clouds looked to be gathering off to the west. Arthur nodded to the students and slipped out the gates.

**ooOOoo**

The barn was crowded when Arthur arrived that Friday night; filled with the dregs of the working class clustered around their favourite bookies, the newest of which waiting until the last minute to assess their odds. The new ones rarely bet on Arthur in one of Bennett's arrangements which was a shame - Arthur hadn't yet lost in this life and the regulars were catching on. Bennett made his profit through seemingly unmatched bouts and had become quite theatric with it all.

Arthur set his shoulders and let the crowds jostle him as he made his way to the space in the centre. Let them underestimate him in his worn grey jumper. An over-confident opponent was always the easiest to take down.

Bennett's hand landed heavily on his shoulder. "Roger Young," he said, nodding towards where a tall dark-haired giant was standing, already bare-chested and playing up the crowd.

"I didn't ask for a name," Arthur replied dismissively. Once, knowing a man's name, his family, had been as important as the duel itself; back when a man's name was currency on the field of battle, where one's rank could save or lose a man's life. The world didn't care now and Arthur found he couldn't either. Neither man fought for honour here; money maybe, perhaps infamy.

Arthur just wanted a moving target.

He tugged off his jumper, tossing it under the chair demarcating the edge of the informal ring boundaries. Men were turning to watch him now, assess his threat level. There were a few faces he remembered as regulars to their little underground party; the few wealthy members of Oxford who held this spectacle as a dirty little secret. Arthur rolled his shoulders.

"Five minutes, yeah?" Bennett tossed him a black roll of gauze tape. "We'll give them a show."

Arthur smirked humourlessly. The tape as he wrapped it firmly around his wrists, his knuckles, was a familiar process now. It was a far cry from the steel plates of the Knights, but it promised to keep everything aligned and less prone to split on impact. He bit down on his mouth guard, giving a few jumps to limber up. Arthur wasn't training everyday now - hadn't kept that sort of regime for decades, and never as intense as in his youth - he'd have to rely on his footwork as much as his stamina now. And despite what Maureen said, he was _not_ getting fat.

He couldn't afford to take any hits tonight that would be hard to explain away; Arthur could only imagine the reaction if he arrived at the College Feast with a split lip and a black eye. Mortal wounds slid away and bones knit - it was the pesky bruises and scrapes that stuck around like unwelcome company. Like Merlin knew what he got up to and disapproved.

Roger was already standing opposite, his mates and backers giving him hearty pats. He was a solid bet, Arthur had to admit; if the man landed a good blow or two he had the weight to do some serious damage. He favoured his right side though; Arthur could tell by the way he carried that same weight.

As the match mediator gave the call, Arthur rolled forward, letting his weight rest on the balls of his feet, evenly balanced as he watched Roger begin to circle. The ground underfoot was hard-packed dirt, not the give of sand from a tourney field. If they bled it would slick the floor - but it also meant that an unscrupulous opponent couldn't resort to kicking it up to gain advantage.

The first swing came fast and heavy from the right, but Roger was quicker in his recovery time than Arthur had anticipated and the counter jab Arthur returned glanced off the man's ribs, not quite connecting. Arthur brought up his guard again, dancing back a few paces. Two feints to the left and one to the right to judge reaction speed. He ducked under a swipe to deliver a sharp hit to Roger's left flank. Despite what Maureen believed, he'd fought giants before - all of them more frightening than this man.

Roger was growing wary now. The man could take the hits, he had enough meat and muscle to soften Arthur's blows, but if he didn't start landing a few of his own, Roger would wear out far faster than he had clearly counted on. Roger's strategy was to bombard his opponent with strikes until one of them stuck, unused to evasive tactics. After a few more glancing exchanges Arthur saw an opening, taking a calculated hit to the ribs in exchange for a chance to deliver a solid hook to the left of Roger's head. It had them both breaking apart to regroup.

He had been right. The man's force had nearly winded him. He'd managed to throw Roger's balance off though, and a smear of blood was spreading high on the man’s cheekbone.

Arthur had the misfortune then to glance at the gathered faces amidst the pause. To his right there was the red blinking of someone recording the match, he'd have to remember to take care of that, and to the left...blue eyes were watching him over a familiar frown and he straightened, looking back - Roger's fist connected with a cracking force against his skull, sending him crashing to the floor. He was bleeding, the skin over his right eye had split under the strike and his head was spinning. 

He let out a snarl, lurching back to his feet. Arthur's vision was clearing enough for him to mostly dodge the next two swings, pushing aside the advances to be less damaging, but his mind was divided on the match and scanning the crowd. He needed to end the fight. He needed - his fist darted out, landing a blow across Roger's nose, feeling the satisfying crunch of what would no doubt turn out to be a break.

The man was a bear, but the resulting pause was enough that in his frantic searching Arthur managed to be one of the first in the barn to see the hurried waving at the entrance as one of the bouncers started to shout the warning. The Oxford police had arrived. Arthur cursed.

Their small group dissolved into chaos. He snatched up his jumper from the overturned chair, dodging moving bodies as best he could as he fought to keep his bearings. He couldn't get arrested. He had no biometrics on file, never had. He wasn't on any of the systems. He was barely registered as being _alive_. Everything he currently was on paper had been falsified ten times over and constructed from favours carefully cultivated - if they actually ran his file, he would be in a world of trouble.

The darkening sky had brought with it a low cloud cover. Arthur sent up a silent thanks to the gods for the starless night, pulling the shirt over his head as he sprinted down the back road cluttered with trucks.

This is what his life was reduced to? Arthur thought grimly, hiding in muddy fields and dodging authorities? Hallucinating about dead men and letting swindlers bet on how soundly he could trounce a child? He was getting tired.

 _I can't go on like this._ He gave a huff of a laugh. Merlin was no Godot, and Arthur didn't know which tree to wait at.

**ooOOoo**

Arthur kept his head down as he entered the dining hall late in his dark dinner jacket. Even so, a glance at the head table confirmed that Maureen had caught sight of the damage his match had caused, the woman half-standing in alarm before catching herself. He kept his eyes on the floor after that, quickly taking his seat amongst the other doctorates.

He'd iced his face the moment he'd dragged himself into his flat, but it still had a sickly hue and there had been nothing he could do about the jagged split above his right eye. She might not ask about it; Maureen had always seemed to know how to judge what she should or shouldn't dig at. Arthur liked to think it was a leftover trait from Morgana, back when they both knew too much and had equal to hide.

Truth be told, the only reason Arthur hadn't skipped the dinner altogether was the thought of sitting alone in his empty flat. He hadn't slept since the fight. Slowly, slowly the memory of that face in the crowd became both solid and transitory. He had seen Merlin that night, really, truly _seen_ him. He should have dropped everything and grabbed hold of the man, audience be damned. He should have...Merlin wasn't real. He had been hallucinating. He had _wanted_ so badly that his mind was finally cracking. He was going mad. But he had _seen_ him.

In over a thousand years, he found he had never stopped looking. In over a thousand years he had never seen a trace of Merlin.

His flat was a mess of broken glass and wood and anything else that had been small enough to pitch across the space.

Arthur had taken the only option he had to distract himself from the voices.

"You look like hell warmed over," the man to his right said tactfully. Videsh, Arthur's mind supplied, dark as a Moor and working towards his anthropology D.Phil. Arthur supposed they had some sort of relationship; they spoke occasionally in the GCR at Christ Church and he knew Videsh was an avid fan of the Blues. Arthur had played with them once, the first time he'd studied at Oxford before the Great War and still liked to watch from the sidelines when he could. Videsh poured Arthur a large helping of port which Arthur downed in one rush to the shock of the group across from him. He nodded in thanks as Videsh shot him a smirk, refilling his glass once more.

"Have a row with the missus?" 

"Bit of a barney down at the pub," Arthur replied, nodding his thanks to the servers as they found him a plate still warm from the kitchens. They were volunteers from the lower years for the college feast, looking for a little extra pocket cash over the weekend. "A few townies mouthing off."

"Thought you were with the boxing club," Videsh said dryly. "I think you need to train a bit longer before you start picking fights."

Arthur forced a companionable smile across his face. "You may be right. I think I got off easy."

"Weigh your odds first, mate."

"A friend once told me it was more fun when things were stacked against you," he said as he eyed the chicken on his plate critically. "It seems to be the story of my life."

"I doubt he intended the advice for pub brawls," Videsh replied in good humour.

"On the contrary, I believe he intended it specifically for pub brawling and applicable to life as an afterthought." His wayward knight was currently the son of a business tycoon – heir to the Greene King company and owned most of the bars in England. Arthur stabbed a fork into his chicken. "How's that thesis going?"

He spent three hours at the sports complex the following day before he returned to his flat resigned but ready to face the aftermath of his weekend. He picked up rubbish sacs from Tesco and begged a broom off one of his neighbours. By ten that night, Arthur had sorted everything into 'broken', 'rubbish' and 'books', ready to cart it all off to the bins out back in the morning. The flat felt bare when he was done.

Arthur checked the bundle safely stowed under his bed once again, the one thing that had escaped his mad fit, before crawling under the covers and falling into a deep slumber.

**ooOOoo**

Arthur had been staring at the same page for the better part of an hour. If asked, it would no doubt take him a moment to remember what he'd read let alone what subject matter it concerned. In his head, he was off on a stony beach, white crested waves breaking across the shore.

He had said he was glad Merlin was with him then, Anhora standing in judgment over what could have been the end of Arthur's life. And Arthur _was_. The man had said he'd happily serve Arthur until the day he died and Arthur had expected that when his own time came, Merlin would have been a constant thorn in his side.

He hadn't been. 

And it wasn't the fault of Merlin's terrible habit of throwing his own life out as a shield for Arthur - Arthur had been adamant about Merlin never visiting the Isle of the Blessed again under any circumstances and made it perfectly clear what he thought about that habit. No, a handful of years into Arthur's reign, Merlin had knocked on his door - actually _knocked_ \- and entered much the same as he had years earlier.

"I'm going away," he had simply said, and Arthur had laughed, thinking the man thought he was making a terrible attempt at humour.

"Don't be ridiculous Merlin." Arthur had kicked back in his chair, gesturing to the other well-worn seat that had grown accustomed to Merlin's weight. "We have council meeting in two days, and the dignitaries from Caledonia are arriving the day after." 

He couldn't remember exactly what was said then, just that Merlin really _was_ leaving, that Merlin was confident that Arthur could handle things on his own, that Arthur had finally become his Destiny. What Arthur didn't say was how something broke inside him when he finally realised Merlin was being deadly serious.

A King could demand a subject stay, but Merlin had never been a subject nor ever inclined to listen to demands. A man could follow after and damn the consequences. Arthur, in Merlin's decision, could be neither and they both had known it. Instead, Arthur had sat alone in his chambers, staring hard at nothing as Merlin set out from the North Gates.

Arthur closed his book. It turned out the book had been a recent republication of _The Phoenix_. It was still unaccredited. It likely would remain so, even if Arthur wrote paper after paper on the author; the English researchers had always been rather attached to their anonymous sources and would not thank him for depriving them of their life’s work. The man had lived a decent life anyhow and received acclaim for many other contributions to court; Arthur doubted he would be bothered by the idea of being cloaked in mystery in death. The grand stories that had sprung up about the anonymous man had already far outshone reality much like Arthur’s own legends.

That was the trouble with legends, though. They were stories, told and retold, passed down and changed until they became all but unrecognizable to the men who lent their names to the heroes of old. Arthur found he couldn’t fault them any longer; his stories were hardly even about him and his men and his Camelot any longer. They had grown beyond life and far beyond history. But then, no one believed in magic anymore and at least _Camelot_ lived on, one way or another.

**ooOOoo**

"What is this?" Arthur frowned at the wrapped parcel Maureen had tossed in his lap, holding his papers high to get a good look at it. He had made the decision to seek refuge in Maureen's office while he reviewed his articles since the ginger lad had evidently found a bruised Arthur incentive enough to jump to the head of the queue. The boy had been waiting for Arthur outside the dining hall with a bottle of whiskey and a rare Latin first edition. Consequently, Arthur had used Lars from the rowing club as a decoy and integrated himself into a conversation with the Dean and two Board members as they exited together.

Avoidance, Arthur had found over the years, was an invaluable skill.

"I thought you might enjoy it; living vicariously through literature as you do." She waved a hand airily but the curve of her smile made Arthur know that whatever it was had some sort of humour lying in wait. The woman likely knew why Arthur was camped out in her armchair midday and clearly felt no sympathy for him. "That vaunted author from Portsmouth was up for a signing at Waterstone's yesterday evening and I thought you'd enjoy reading up on your namesake."

" _Dux Bellorum: The Dragon and Rome,"_ Arthur read as he crumpled the wrappings. "It's a new book on King Arthur, isn't it...by one Rob Lock. I didn't know he was back in England." He didn't know the man was a _writer_ \- from past experience Robert had always been more of the hands-on than the academic.

"So you do know that rascal?" Maureen sounded fascinated. "I had him sign it for you and he seemed to think he might."

There was no message inside the cover, just a scrawled _to Arthur P., R. Lock._ Arthur wasn't certain he had even expected something more. "An old acquaintance of mine. I haven't seen him in years." Exactly 57 years, just before the man had gone off after the war to settle in Hong Kong. But then, Robert had always been the roaming sort.

Arthur Pendragon was not the only man out of time roaming Britain, though he had the dubious honour of being the most frequently spoken of and researched. There were others, less well-known names, rumoured whispers of Sleepers under hills or consorts of the Fey. Some were merely men, names of no great renown and no lasting stories for the ages. Arthur, as far as he had encountered, was the only one awake and bound so completely to the earth of Albion. Every last one of the others was bitter, jaded. They never spent long in each other's company as a result.

Tam Lin had been the strangest, already more than half Fey by the time Arthur had first met him. He lived in the realm of men for seven year spurts; given the freedom once every hundred years, and only then if he found someone to wrestle him from Mab's hold. Arthur had tried to break the cycle once and only succeeded in causing the deaths of two young girls and a good charger. A hundred years later, Arthur himself had pulled Tam down at Mile's Cross - which apparently had much the same effect as a virginal girl for the man, disproving many theories they had discussed over his condition a hundred years prior. They had a short-lived fling before Arthur called it off. Neither had been fussed over the ending.

Tam was confident that his curse would end as all the Walker's and Sleeper's curses would; with finding the one he was waiting for. Arthur had left Tam alone after that. Ostensively it was so that Tam could find his other half - mostly it was because Arthur knew who his own half was and wondered what it meant for him if his other half was well and truly dead. If his other half had died absolutely and completely in a botched attempt to trade lives. It would be so utterly _Merlin_ for him to forget that last detail; to give Arthur eternal, purposeless life.

The man had loved whole-heartedly a number of the women who had won his hand which made Arthur wonder just what it took, this someone Tam was living for. What it would take from Arthur, and if he would be able to give it when the time came calling.

On the other hand, two of the Sleepers under hills had attendants at their sides, clearly devoted beyond reason and still neither was yet released. They believed it was only a matter of time. A hundred thousand days or the advent of particular celestial alignments, it would eventually come. Arthur had seen nearly every alignment pass him by and never felt a twinge or change. One had claimed it was his fate as a bard to stand vigil; that every Sleeping King had need of both a Wizard and a Bard for when he woke. So then perhaps Arthur was looking for two someones - though what he would do with a minstrel once he found Merlin wasn't something Arthur had an answer for.

And then there was Robert Locksley. Robert had never expressed any philosophical explanation for his state or mentioned a quest he was on to free himself. But then, Locksley had travelled the world over; lived histories and learned sciences and uncovered religions Arthur had only ever read of. He once said laughingly that he was the spirit of the down-trodden and the forced conscience of the wicked. It was the closest Arthur had ever gotten Robert to comment on his view of his continued condition. _  
__  
_"Arthur wasn't a Roman," Arthur said off-hand as he skimmed the author biography. "Camelot was built with magic and placed outside of time." _  
_ __  
"Yes, yes, literature does that to heroic archetypes. I teach Latin and Classics - you don't need to tell me about things placed out of time."

"Magic is so hard to believe for you, isn't it?" _  
_ _  
_"'Magic is merely science we do not yet understand,'" Maureen said offhand, her eyes scanning the schedule perched on the corner of her desk. "He's staying over at the _Malmaison_. It would be good for you to get out with other young men," she added, watching him with a fond expression she had found somewhere in this lifetime. _  
_ __  
Arthur nodded absently for Maureen's sake, staring at the faint imprint of his family crest on the cover. Robert had remembered the scrap of vellum on which Arthur had scratched the likeness of the golden dragon in a dark corner of Exeter, deep in his drinks. It had been the only time he had ever drawn the crest since leaving Camelot behind.

That night, back in his flat, Arthur pulled the long thin bundle from under his bed and sat with it across his knees thinking of dragons and destiny and feathered hats.  
 __  


**ooOOoo**

Wednesday saw Arthur back at the Sporting Complex on Iffley, his bruises already faded to their final yellow hue. Bennett was off in a corner when Arthur arrived, deep in conversation with men Arthur had never seen before; he ignored them, wrapping his fists and pulling on his gloves. He was well into his circuit before a young second year made himself known at Arthur's side.

Arthur had seen the blond at a couple of his less public matches over the last few months - he was certain he'd sparred the boy at least once when the lad had first joined up but Arthur couldn't recall a name for the face. He was large, looked like he was built for brawling - Arthur was certain he was studying horticulture and genetics. The boy seemed to be waiting to be acknowledged, tension making him twitchy on his feet. Arthur gave him a few moments before stripping his wrappings and shooting him a pointed look.

"I have a match." There was a proud gleam in his eyes to contrast the low tone and Arthur watched him glance furtively around the small gym room while something rolled in Arthur's stomach. The boy had been with the club since the start of term. He may have been built for boxing, but he seemed more enthusiast than challenger. Then again, Arthur had made a point to ignore his fellow athletes this go around – he wasn’t boxing to make friends, after all.

There was no way to misinterpret what kind of match he meant.

"...Last man standing?" Arthur said carefully, letting his hands slowly wind his wraps as he cast a glance over at Bennett's office door.

"You could give me some pointers, yeah? You -"

"I don't train men," Arthur said more sharply than he intended. 

The lad's face darkened briefly and Arthur felt a pang of guilt strip through him. "Let me watch you, then. I won't get in your way."

Arthur stripped down his fists, snatching his towel from the ground. "I'm done for the day." He shot the boy another glance. "Just watch your footwork and don't be where his fist is."

**ooOOoo**

When Arthur left Iffley, he had managed to argue Bennett into postponing the lad's first match and in the process had stepped into the fight himself. Arthur was a big draw for the regulars and Bennett knew a good deal when he saw one. Though, most fighters had months between fights - Arthur had barely a week. He shifted his kit bag, one hand jammed down in his jean pocket as he glanced back at the Sport Complex. The boy would likely hold it against him for years once he was told, but he would be the better for it. And Arthur refused to think that just maybe he’d been easier to convince that he should have been – that the thought of the chance Merlin might show again may have clouded his judgement somewhat.

His bike was propped against the side wall, a pale brown paint job that had long since given way to rust. An acquaintance of his in Edinburgh had once called it his piebald stallion. She had dubbed it ‘the Duke' with a flourish of a broom and they had spent the afternoon sharing Cornish pasties on the heath. 

Robert Locksley was waiting for him nearby, two wrapped bundles strapped to his back and seated atop a motorbike.

"Your friend seems to think you may need to blow off some steam," Robert said by way of greeting. "Left me five messages and staked out my reading on campus."

"That's what boxing is for," Arthur replied, hitching his bag higher with one hand as he grabbed his bike.

"A heavy bag can't strike back unless you're very poor indeed."

Arthur was tired. He hadn't been sleeping much and he had eaten only grudgingly, but if those packages where what he thought they were he would endure.

"British Steel?" he inquired, throwing a leg over the Duke.

"Just like old times."

Arthur shot Robert a sidelong look. "Where'd you find them?"

"None of your damn business," Robert shot back, revving his motorbike.

He smirked. Robert was exactly as Arthur remembered, then.

**ooOOoo**

"No luck yet, then?" Robert said, sprawled in the thick grass of the hills, Oxford spread out before them in miniature. 

Their swords stuck out of the ground like way markers and Arthur wondered once again if the man had liberated them from a museum or kept them in his own personal arsenal. Arthur's was an old British broadsword, flat round pommel and defined crossbar while Robert had a fine Damascus steel with its slightly curved blade and ridiculous tassels. The sword looked familiar, but it was hard to know if it was the same blade Robert had held onto all these years or a fine replacement.

"I could ask the same of you," Arthur replied dryly. “ _Malmaison_. Did they give you back your old cell?”

Robert had fought as well as Arthur remembered, and though he had bested the other man three of their four duels, Arthur knew that Robert's strength lay in weapons of accuracy. Should it have been a wager over throwing knives or rifles, Robert would win every time. He'd learned that the night he'd lost his horse, favourite pair of boots and had to walk back to his lodgings wearing naught but his hosiery; all for the luck of a well-placed arrow.

“Much more comfortable, this round." Robert cracked open a bottle of perry he'd nicked from the university. "I think you'll find I'm quite lucky, Wart. I haven't a care in the world."

Ever since White had written that damnable book, Arthur had been incapable of getting Robert to release the moniker. He still despaired of ever succeeding. Though really, it was surprisingly less grating than being called ‘Arty, my boy’ for two decades. "Still the world's foremost expert in security protocols?"

"You don't sound suitably impressed," Robert said with good nature. "Do you have any idea how _complicated_ they've made things nowadays? All these electronics and sensors…"

Arthur gave an amused huff. "I'm certain you helped them along the way - no doubt for a king's ransom in consultant fees. One of these days you're going to get caught mid-job and you won't have a John to help you out. Lord knows, I won't break you out again; I have enough on my plate without adding you to the mix."

"Centuries later, Wart, and you still act like the weight of the world is on your shoulders. You _died_ , Old Boy; you have the right to just enjoy yourself now - be thankful someone gave you the chance to see jet planes and microwave dinners," Robert quipped. "At the very least, stop being the sensible voice in the grey moral seas."

Arthur took a deep drink from the bottle, staring hard at the small shape of St. Mike's Tower. Robert had died the first time during the Crusades. He had claimed some Muslim hedgewitch had cursed him never to meet his one God and Robert had laughed, saying he would prefer it that way. Before the Crusades, Robert had been a yeoman with no family or prospects. Immortality had given him a future. A future he used to ignore all manner of law for whatever he saw fit.

Arthur had thought, as any sane man might, that his first death was on the field of Camlann, old and world weary and ready to pass over. Years later had him wondering. He remembered hearing - days after waking from the Questing Beast while Merlin was still missing - that wounds of that sort were always fatal. His father had claimed it was his strong Pendragon blood that had fought off infection; a lie he’d believed again when fire had consumed his veins, off searching for a Dragonlord far from home. Arthur remembered the feeling of an arrow, well aimed at his retreating back, piercing through mail and sinew and lung. Merlin had told him it had glanced off his armour.

A hundred little incidents that Arthur could hardly remember clearly when he should have died but never did. An explanation of Arthur's irrational fear of drowning that had developed in his mid-twenties – never confided, but part of a story Merlin outright refused to explain. Perhaps he had been this way well before Mordred had slain him.

"You never looked for Marian, then? Or William?" In the early days of his acquaintance with Robert, the man had no end of tales about his companions, the ones he had gathered upon his return and the woman he had loved. But where Arthur searched and waited, Robert shrugged aside and carried on. He wondered who had the right of it.

"Neither of them caused my condition," Robert said sideways, "and I have no desire to change it. I want to see where these people can go. Can you imagine being amongst the stars, Wart?"

"No." 

Merlin had once made a dark room dance with twinkling lights and Arthur as king had watched in silence, trying to memorize the sight; so very Merlin. Like memories of nights outdoors he could no longer have. Merlin had offered to replicate the effect for Arthur's wedding, but Gwen had wanted flowers and sunlight - Merlin had smiled and wove the breeze to hold petals aloft. That night he had given Arthur a box when Arthur had returned from the queen's chambers, inside a dozen tiny lights that pinned themselves to his canopy.

If Arthur had the chance, he would take that box over a space shuttle any day.

"Are you here to nick something specific, or was having a go at my life story enough this time around?" Arthur handed the perry back to Robert.

"I haven't tried the gallery here in ages. I think I could get a fairly good contract from Oxfordshire if you were in the market for something," the man mused. "As for you, King Arthur is public domain. I could say you were a ginger Swede with a clubfoot and if I argued it sweetly enough it would pass as one more alternate."

"You could have left off the Lancelot pining after me bit," Arthur replied, tossing a stick at Robert. "What did you call him...Leontes? He was a good man - never had eyes for anyone but Guinevere."

"So you _did_ read it, you narcissistic punter." Robert shot him a grin. "It's a liberal world nowadays - cuckolding alone isn't enough to sell books anymore. Besides, if your wife was willing to run off with the man you can't tell me he wasn't attractive enough for you."

Hardly anything was sacred in Robert's mind, Arthur remembered as he watched the lights turning on across Summertown in the lengthening evening shadows. Robert had seen too much over the years from every corner of the globe to take anything very seriously. Arthur found he couldn't even bring himself to take offense to the comment. When he'd happened across Lancelot again in Swansea during one of Arthur's downswings, Arthur had harried the man's life with innuendo just to see how it would play out; see if he could share even a little of the devotion Lancelot had shown Gwen. Arthur had regretted it years later, making his final peace with Lancelot's actions. Of course, by then Lancelot had retreated to the Himalayas and Arthur had lost track of where he was for decades.

"Besides, no one would ever believe your wizened wizard was young, devoted and tupping his -"

"The real Merlin is off limits, even in jest, Robert," Arthur said firmly, heading him off before he really began. "I wasn't 'tupping' anyone but my wife back then, so all your wild suppositions are without basis."

"What that tells me is that we need to find you a warm body, mate. I'll bet you haven't touched anything since the Sixties."

"It hasn't been that long."

"Go on, then."

Arthur took a long drink. 

"Been more than a few months," Robert hooked his hands behind his head, staring at Arthur thoughtfully, "though I'm willing to wager my first guess wasn't that far off. Come on, we're going to pull you a ringer."

**ooOOoo**

Honestly, Arthur wasn't sure why he hadn't just shut Robert down and retired for the night. He'd exhausted himself twice already that day and downed half a litre of perry - but as Robert threw an arm over his shoulder and steered him into a group clustered around the counter shouting 'Come share a pint with old Robin Hood and the bloody High King!', Arthur found he needed this. He hadn't been out for a carefree night in too long.

Robert had a way with people that had always baffled Arthur. Certainly, Arthur could inspire men to battle, could weave words when needed to give hope in the dark and win the love and respect of his people, but Robert - Robert knew how to make men merry. He knew how to slot himself into a stranger's life and make them feel better for having known him; how to blend into a crowd. The skill made Robert a master rascal and thief, but he rarely misused it on honest folk - that alone was why Arthur put up with the man's hobbies.

Arthur paused with his pint halfway to his lips, eyes caught on a dark-haired lad staring openly at him across the pub. Arthur coughed, shaken as Robert clapped him hard on the back saying, "For fuck's sake." He was summarily steered over and deposited in front of the man. Arthur shot Robert a glare - it wasn't as though he was a complete failure at this sort of thing, after all, he'd had centuries to learn how to swing a conversation even if he wasn’t as adept as Robert.

"Have you met my friend Arthur?" Robert said helpfully before making a quick about-face and buggering off. Arthur had to admit, it was beautiful in its simplicity. He smiled, offered a hand and thought just long enough to note the man had remarkably normal ears before Arthur knocked back his pint and focused on forgetting.

The evening after that went from marginally improving to utter disaster in less time than Arthur could rightly comprehend. Turned out the bloke's name was Harrold, and yes, was very interested in getting his end off that night with Arthur. Unfortunately, when Arthur opened his eyes to wave off Robert and Harrold was rather enthusiastically snogging him, Arthur caught sight of Merlin.

And it _was_ Merlin - it had to be. He wasn't looking at Arthur and in fact he seemed to be heading for the exit carrying a silver pitcher and -

Arthur shot to his feet from the booth they'd been in, unseating an extremely disgruntled Harrold and upsetting the table in the process. Robert was shouting something at him and the bar staff were approaching him but Arthur was already gone, racing after the retreating form of Merlin for all he was worth. 

He burst through the pub's doors, eyes darting up and down the street - he sprinted to nearest alleyway, dodging to scan windows as he went. Nothing. Arthur thought quickly, trying to understand where the man had got to. He was young - looked as he had in his twenties, perhaps – and he had come for a night out at a notoriously uni pub. So a student then, but was he on campus or off? He had to be a fresher, or Arthur would have seen him before, perhaps an international fresher. Arthur let out a frustrated sound and took off at a mad dash towards the nearest college. Maybe he wasn’t a student. Maybe he had just moved into town?

There was no one. For the second time in little over a week he had seen Merlin, and lost him.

Arthur punched the nearest surface as hard as he could; for a man who had been bred for battle and had no fear of injury, it was rather hard. It was brick. His right hand gave a sickening crunch as it hit, scraping off too much skin and sending shockwaves through his arm. His resulting shout caused lights to flicker on across the residence, the porter on duty switching on his torch and Arthur grimaced, moving into the shadows.

Robert caught up with him a few moments later, first moving to intercept the porter with hands held in placation. "Sorry mate, it's just a fellow of mine - his bird just said she'd gone off with his patter. I'll get him home. A thousand apologies about the racket."

The porter frowned, his light trained on Arthur's strained red face while he curled protectively around his fist. Arthur shot the man a glare that no doubt spoke volumes on just how much he was willing to tear the porter a new one if the speed at which the man retreated was any indication.

Robert had a few more words with the man and waited till the porter disappeared inside the gates before he turned on Arthur, throwing an arm over his shoulders to which Arthur responded with a strong left backhand. It made Robert stumble back, giving a curse as he tested his jaw. "You want to hit me, fine," Robert said roughly. "I don't know why, and I don't care so long as we don't do this here."

At that, Arthur stalked down the street, his right hand held close to his body.

"You utter twat," Robert muttered when he caught up, catching sight of the mangled mess. "Sit down and hold still; you go and do this three days before a match-up, you're better to treat it sooner than later."

Arthur closed his eyes, concentrating on breathing through his nose before nodding tightly. Robert was right. If he set the bones now the splinters and fractures might mend by morning and he'd be left with bruises and healing skin, easily hidden under gauze tape. His knuckles were an utter mess.

"Right," Robert took off his button-down, quickly tearing strips to work with. "I forgot your immortality is a bit rubbish," he said - whether as a joke or a distraction, Arthur wasn't sure – it wasn’t very funny, and it wasn’t much of a distraction. He _was_ sure that he was glad Robert had the foresight to stuff the remains of his shirt between Arthur's teeth before he started though; each time Robert pushed another bone back into place Arthur's pain muffled into a whine, jaw clenched around the fabric. His leg buckled and he went hard to the cobblestones but Robert caught him, steadying him before his shoulder cracked against stone.

When it was over, Arthur's hand bound as tight as his boxing wraps, he simply stared at Robert feeling a little lost and a lot haunted. It was rare to have someone around that knew how to handle battle wounds these days - even rarer one that would shred anything and everything at the drop of a hat for bandages. It was a trait left over from the wars.

"What was it this time?" Robert shrugged his sports jacket back on over bare shoulders, tactfully not staring at Arthur in a way few people understood these days.

The last time Robert had found Arthur more than a bit mangled on the side of the road, Arthur had hopped on a motorbike in the rain, speeding off to warn a RAF base of an air strike in 1942. He hadn't made it in time. It had proved loosing limbs wasn't a deterrent in his continued existence though, as disturbing as the whole experience had been. His limbs had regrown in one horrifically painful day. His skin had taken longer.

"I saw Merlin," Arthur said after a moment. He owed some explanation to the man. 

"Shit."

Arthur got to his feet a little unsteady. His left knee was going to be a problem - knowing his luck he'd likely fractured his kneecap against the road. Arthur didn't respond to anything Robert said after that, limping off into the early morning.

**ooOOoo**

It wasn't until half three the next afternoon that Arthur realised Robert had known something he shouldn't have, though it really shouldn't have surprised him. He hadn't the time to interrogate the man over it between his meeting with the English department, a mandatory small lecture period and tutoring for Maureen, but it floated at the back of his mind. The match that hadn’t even been his twenty-four hours ago had somehow gained far more importance than Arthur had anticipated. 

Maureen was watching him with that critical eye again. Despite having a fountain pen in hand and a stack of papers six inches high, Arthur knew she hadn't made a mark in long enough to safely declare the items props. Despite that, he refused to acknowledge the fact that he was a specimen under observation until she made the situation unavoidable.

It didn't take long.

Five minutes into her one-sided staring match, Maureen put down her pen with firm decision and proceeded to point meaningfully at him, glasses perched low on her nose. "I have never, _never_ seen you as silent and moping as you are today. I would say it was girl troubles, but -"

Arthur snapped his book shut, levelling Maureen with a flat stare. She stared back.

" _Is_ it girl troubles?" Maureen narrowed her eyes. "Or boy troubles, I suppose."

"No, Lafayette," Arthur said as he rubbed tiredly at the bridge of his nose. "I am not having relationship problems with a significant other, male or female."

"Then why do you do it, Arthur Penn?" Arthur frowned, meeting Maureen's gaze over her desk. Somehow Arthur knew she had jumped topics and he couldn't quite figure out where she had landed. "Every so often you turn up with battle wounds and missing evenings you won't speak of - I know you get into fights. It isn't healthy."

Arthur closed his eyes, wishing she had stuck to pestering him about his non-existent sex life. Morgana always had known how to spring a non-sequitur and it seemed that Maureen was keeping to habit. This is what she had been staring at him over. "I box, injuries happen."

"At Iffley."

"Yes, Maureen, at Iffley."

Her mouth tightened and Arthur knew that look. "I saw the tape."

"Tape?"

"I may be old enough to be your grandmother,” Maureen said calmly and Arthur felt his mouth tug in an involuntary smile, “but I do have my connections - one of whom has taken a keen interest in a certain boxing ring."

Arthur remembered a blinking light in a sea of darkness, the one he'd forgotten about in the confusion following. "It's a sport, Lafayette," he said, his mind racing through his options. If footage of his match got into the wrong hands he would be called down to the precinct at best. They’d likely run his file, lay him up on charges – if they noticed the discrepancies in his identity, he might even face an in-depth investigation. If they got his fingerprints in their database in this day and age it would likely cause problems for his foreseeable future.

"It's a bloody cockfight for humans," she shot back. 

"May I see it?" A sudden thought struck him, more pressing than the police; memories of Merlin's face in the crowd pushing to the front of his mind, far more important to him in that moment than protecting himself.

"I know there are certain things we _don't talk about_ , Arthur," Maureen continued, "but I don't want to see you sent down over this. I can't even bring it to the Board to accuse that coach of yours without making you face charges yourself."

"The tape, Maureen. Please."

Maureen shook her head but she tossed him a memory stick. "You can use the laptop on the sideboard. If you delete that file Mr. Penn there will be trouble. I still haven't decided what to do about you."

If there was any perfect time to bow out of this life of his, to say 'you're right, it's a destructive habit and I'll have no more of it', this was it. Head out to Wick on Scotland’s east coast or set up again as a drover across her Highlands. Three weeks ago, he might have. The moment before he'd shucked his jumper on the ground, staring at Roger Young across the barn, he might have. But then he'd seen Merlin for the first time since the battlefield, and now he couldn't - not until he knew just what had changed.

The footage was a bit shoddy, a combination of poor equipment and the terrible lighting in the area, but it showed the angle Arthur had been looking for. Every so often it held still long enough to focus clearly on the faces of spectators ringing the match and Arthur studied those faces hungrily. 

Merlin wasn't there. 

Even at the moment when the Arthur on screen hesitated, pulling out of his defensive stance and staring like a peasant into the crowd - Merlin wasn't there.

Arthur deflated in his chair, barely seeing the swing that had nearly concussed him. The footage became unwatchable after Arthur's brutal return, but Arthur was already closing the screen, knowing how it ended and not really caring.

"He wasn't there."

The truth of the matter was that Arthur was going mad.

"Arthur?" Maureen had gotten to her feet, pulling off her glasses as she rounded her desk. She crouched at the side of the armchair he had long since claimed as his own. "Breathe, Arthur. Who wasn't there?" 

"Merlin." Maureen stared at him long and hard, but Arthur wasn't seeing her.

Perhaps this is what it had felt like for Morgana, all those years ago. Hers had been a slow descent into madness, Merlin had said, starting in Camelot with dreams she couldn't ignore and visions she couldn't place. When she left, it was fed by whispered lies and a deep-rooted sense of betrayal until she was nothing like the sister Arthur had known. If she had someone to speak to then, if they had known what to say - but that wasn't an option now. Arthur had no one. No one remembered.

Maureen slowly straightened, one hand using the arm of his chair for support. She paced over to her bookcase as Arthur watched with blank eyes, pausing to turn halfway before changing her mind and reaching for an envelope. She stared at the paper before she seemed to come to a decision. 

"I've spoken with a few friends of mine in Rome over the past year, Arthur," Maureen said quietly. "If you want it, they're willing to offer a position for you at La Sapienza. It's an amazing chance. Not many Englishmen get the chance to teach in Rome."

Arthur was silent for a moment, staring hard at a spot just between her shoulder blades. He remembered putting a hand there once, steadying her on a spirited horse when he was nine and she was eleven - before they had silently agreed that sibling affections meant sniping one another mercilessly in public. "I can't go to Rome."

Maureen turned, a frown marring her face and she held out the envelope firmly. Arthur wasn't sure what was enclosed, whether it was an acceptance letter he'd never asked for or even so far as a plane ticket already issued and waiting for him. Either way, he wouldn't find out. "You speak Italian and Latin like a native and you know as more about Roman history and culture than most Italians -"

 _I also speak Frankish, Greek, Arabic, Old Germanic and both strains of Gaelic_ , Arthur thought dryly, and half a dozen other languages he had studied when they came in useful or else he was terribly bored. There were three or four obscure dialects he hadn’t been able to find tutors for - though as one of those languages currently only had fourteen remaining native speakers with no desire to travel, he had all but given up on it. His qualifications and ability to adapt wouldn’t ever be an issue. Distance, on the other hand - but in this idea, Maureen seemed set; best to head her off now.

"No, Maureen. I _can't_ go to Rome." He couldn’t even make it to Ireland or through the Chunnel to France. Arthur doubted, even without his condition, if his current identity would even make it through border control. He shouldn’t be surprised Maureen had thought to ship him away at the first sign of trouble – when Morgana had been Margaret, and Arthur working at the docks of the West India Company’s London quay, she had tried time and again to get him commission on her brother’s craft. She had been none too pleased at his constant refusal.

"Fine," she said sharply. "Not Rome. You need to get away, give yourself a little distance. Quebec. Peru. You're a smart boy, Arthur Penn, but if you're in some sort of trouble...sometimes it's alright to run away when things get rough." 

Arthur let out a huff of a laugh, mirthless and they both felt it. "I'm glad I found you again. I'll be fine, Maureen. I have one last match and then it will be done; I'll even deliver this tape to the Dean myself with a letter of confession." He stood giving her a nod.

"That's not what I -"

"No, it's not," Arthur said, feeling every year of his life stretching behind him, "but it is what’s for the best."

**ooOOoo**

The ring was no more than a circle of vehicles, headlamps on to illuminate the darkness. The light cast shadows into the night, restless spectators wreathing like spirits, and Arthur could recall more than one bonfire revelry at the sight. The autumn harvest his first year as king. The last Beltane the four of them, Lancelot and Gwen and Merlin and Arthur, had gone down to the festivities together. 

It was such a ridiculous memory to think of then - he wasn't walking into a cleansing ritual or reaffirmation of life. It wasn't a celebration of a bountiful year. There were no pleasantly wine-warmed stomachs or offerings to the gods. The blood sacrificed tonight would be for vain and glory, the drunken revellers fuelled by greed and perversion. 

And yet...Arthur remembered in that moment spinning a laughing Gwen through joyous dancers, watching the light of the fires across her face and wrapping an arm about her slim waist, taking her with him as he leapt across the flames. Merlin had clapped along with the druid bards and musicians and Lancelot had grinned and pressed another goblet of wine into Arthur's hand upon their successful return. 

The years after, Lancelot had been away or had gracefully bowed out of attendance - then Merlin had pulled his disappearing act without any trace. Neither Arthur nor Gwen had seen much merit in joining the festivities after that, though most years one or both would make an obligatory appearance to appease their citizens. Arthur had spent his heavy in drink, knowing full well that Gwen back in her chambers would appreciate the gesture for what it was.

There were no musicians in this ring of light, just the sound of chatter, drunken or otherwise, like a tavern in the early evening. He knew Robert would be there already, somewhere; if the man had a ploy running on Arthur's match there was no chance he would link himself so obviously to Arthur by arriving at his side. He wondered vaguely if Robert had bet for or against him.

Arthur wove through the crowd, stepping between the bonnets of an old Fiat and a blue Ford. He stripped off his jacket and shirt, balling them and tossing them to the side. His fist still felt raw, pain flaring through it with each flex of his grip, knuckles still a torn mess under the fresh white wrappings. They were wrapped tightly in gauze tape under his regular wraps, enough of a barrier that he should pass inspection from the mediator without having to redress his fists. 

Arthur knew his body better than any man alive. He knew he had at best two, maybe three, solid punches with his right fist before the bones would fracture under the strain - his reknit bone was always brittle for the first week and Arthur had only been able to give it two days. He was facing this match one handed. If this were a normal fight, where survival was paramount and lives were on the line, Arthur knew he could fare reasonably well despite the handicap. He was fair with his left hand and quick to dodge, well accustomed to improvising against a threat. As it stood, there was only so long he could avoid his opponent before the crowd would turn on him and no makeshift weapons to rely upon. This was a remnant of Rome's circus, and he had to entertain.

His opponent, Arthur realized as he scanned the ring, was the lad from the club. He gritted his teeth, darting his eyes around to find Bennett but the man was nowhere he could find. Bennett had played him, he realised. For whatever reason, Bennett had wanted Arthur in this match-up from the start and knew Arthur well enough to know how he would react to the hero-worship the boy had got caught up in. This was a fight Arthur was meant to win without question; a rookie versus a war veteran, regardless of how imposing the lad looked in the darkness. The whole match was smoke and mirrors, but if Bennett wasn't there Arthur had to wonder who it was for. Had Robert had a hand in this?

Robert was standing off by a Citroen, seemingly deep in conversation with a man that looked like an Oxford professor - not one of Maureen's or the English department. Whatever Robert had planned, the man knew Arthur was entering damaged. Arthur might still win, but betting on either outcome wasn't nearly as safe as Bennett usually rigged things and Robert rarely ever gambled without knowing how the dice would land. He didn’t always win his bets, but then, he didn’t always intend to. 

When Arthur was Crown Prince of Camelot, and later her King, he had gone to his death time and again for his people. The Labyrinth of Gedref, the Dragon, the Isle of the Blessed - he had gone with the knowledge that his actions would save countless lives. In truth, Arthur knew he would have fought tooth and nail to cling to life. He was terrified of his own death but he knew what was expected of him and that provided a comfortable routine to focus on. With each successful brush, it became easier. Years later, Arthur couldn't help but wonder if deep down he hadn't known he would be saved. If his acts of bravery weren't simply for show, and he was trusting others - trusting Merlin - to save him. He gambled with his life, and he had always come out on top.

He went to his death against Mordred with the utter belief lodged in his chest that Merlin had never failed him. Arthur had never died when facing certain death. If Arthur was truly in any sort of danger, Merlin would save him.

Like always. 

In his own way, Merlin had.

An overconfident opponent was always the easiest to take down and Arthur had underestimated his opponent from the start; then, as now.

The boy across from Arthur was fit, bones encased in muscles that mattered and not exaggerated for show. Over the past year he'd clearly done more training than Arthur had given him credit for. 

They squared up and the boy offered a hand, a gesture of sportsmanship despite Arthur's dismissal at Iffley. He would have been worth training, Arthur thought regretfully, gripping the hand firmly and steeling his face against the shot of pain it sent through his arm.

Robert was right; Arthur’s immortality was a bit rubbish, comparatively. But it was Arthur’s.

It seemed like the boy had taken Arthur's gruff command to heart - he dodged and weaved like a hare, avoiding Arthur's fist more often than he blocked. Arthur's inability to give a good double tap was noted, filed and remembered. The lad knew Arthur wasn't relying on his right hand, every time Arthur used it to feint, the boy's face darkened in anger as though he thought Arthur was going soft on him, pulling punches at every corner. The boy wouldn't know it wasn't Arthur's devious ploy to draw out the fight - that Arthur could feel his bones creaking, that last connect he'd had with his right sending a jolt of tension through his arm all the way to his teeth. 

The crowd was sensing a finish; they could tell Arthur was near the end of his strength in the match. A good solid jab to his side sent him curling into a rejoinder, snapping his head back with enough force that Arthur saw black, tripping over his feet and sending him to the ground.

Arthur stayed down. There wasn’t much point in him getting to his feet again only to suffer through another barrage. Arthur had dealt with a broken neck before; he had no intention of putting himself in that condition ever again.

He kept his eyes shut, listening for the count of the mediator through the swelling shouts of the crowd. Someone was digging a hand under his shoulders, tugging him into an upright position.

“Arthur?”

Maureen. The corner of his mouth twitched as he tried to drag out a smirk for the woman. Of course she had found her way to his last match, the meddlesome harridan. His chest contracted quickly, and he rolled to his side, coughing harshly in the cool air. Her fingers were questing over his injuries, finding the bumps and bruises and pressing hard against them to assess the damage.

Arthur batted her hands away when he was able, getting to his feet with careful precision. “Past time we went home, Lafayette,” he murmured under the voices surrounding them. His eyesight wasn’t quite back to normal yet, the bright lights of the ring still sending painful shots into his skull.

Someone slipped an arm under Arthur’s, pulling him upright. “Alright, Wart, now’s the time to disappear.”

“I was wondering when you’d show up,” Arthur said as he leaned his weight on Robert’s shoulders, trusting the other man’s judgment in getting them clear of the crowd.

“You could have made it look like more of a fight,” Robert muttered, dragging Arthur to the left and ducking them past a group of merry spectators. As Arthur caught sight of the shape of Maureen sticking close by as they moved, he found he was both glad she was within sight and frustrated that she hadn’t just disappeared home.

Arthur blinked as they came to a temporary halt near a dark car, willing his vision back into order. Maureen had already pulled open the backseat, and Robert put a hand on Arthur’s head, pushing him down and into the vehicle before piling in after him.

**ooOOoo**

“Right here,” Robert leaned forward to point over Maureen’s shoulder. “There’s a lane off to the right.”

“I would far prefer to be taking Mr Penn to a physician at this moment, Mr Lock,” Maureen said as she shifted gears, passing the Sporting Complex and turning onto Jackdaw Lane despite her words.

“My dear lady, I thought I told you to call me Rob.”

Arthur said nothing. He held up his hand in the dark of the car and examined its silhouette, fingers on the other hand pressing against his bones. It hadn’t broken again. If Maureen took him to a physician they would find only bruises which might alleviate the woman’s fears for his health.

“A little further along, past the scrap yard – I parked it by an oak at the end of the path.”

“Taking a motorbike and a car down a path like this are two drastically different experiences, Mr Lock.”

The trees were like dark shadows in the night, a small wooden alcove tucked away between the gymnasium and river Isis. Robert had apparently left his motorbike somewhere beneath the canopy before hitching a ride with an Oxford professor over to the match, claiming his property had always been safer out of sight and under bough. With any luck, Arthur would be able to bid Maureen goodnight and have Robert drop him off at his flat – preferably after ascertaining just what Robert had won from the proceedings.

Robert gave Arthur’s shoulder a friendly shove before he crawled out of Maureen’s Peugeot. Arthur flexed his hand and climbed out after him.

“You should just get a horse and be done with it,” Arthur gave Robert’s back a push when he caught up to the man. Robert was running a hand over the seat fondly, checking the vehicle was in good condition during its stay. “A machine like her doesn’t need to be left to pasture when not in use.”

“I’m not about to take transportation advice from a man who rides a rusted bicycle and hasn’t driven a car since the _Mercedes Simplex.”  
_ __  
“I had an Aston for thirty years,” Arthur objected before Maureen joined them. Robert just laughed.

His laughter cut out a moment later though and he shot Arthur a frown, holding a hand up to his lips. Arthur immediately started scanning the area, beckoning Maureen to his side with a gesture. There were men in these woods, and they were trying to be stealthy.

“We should get back to the car,” Arthur said softly. Maureen looked about to protest as three men emerged from the trees.

“Gentlemen,” the central figure spread his arms wide, “a moment of your time.”

It was a heavy Russian accent, the other two men clearly looking like enforcers of some sort or another and spoiling for a fight. Between himself and Robert, Arthur was certain they would be able to handle a back-wood brawl even recovering as he was – until he took in the outline of holsters in the dim light. Dodging bullets had never been his strong point.

“Arthur…” Maureen seemed to be squaring her shoulders at his side, facing this new threat as only Morgana could – head on and unafraid, “has this anything to do with you?”

“I’ve never been to Russia,” he quipped. His hands were twitching against his track pants, the tendons of his right hand feeling tight in the cool night air. “I can’t imagine why it would.” 

“Look boys, now’s not the time to contest the outcome of this evening,” Robert said as he held up his hands. So they were Robert’s shadows, then; Arthur hadn’t had to deal with Robert’s fallouts since a poor tavern brawl in the Forties. “Why don’t we give it a few days, your boss can come to terms with the fact that he made a lousy bet –“

“This is not about the match you rigged, Mister Locksley, or the two paintings currently residing in your hotel room.” Arthur shot Robert a dirty look at that. 

Robert steadfastly ignored Arthur. “I’m glad we clarified that.”

“You remember my employer, Master Tepes.” The dark-haired man took a step forward, removing an old photo from the inside of his coat, holding it up for examination in the light from Maureen’s car lights. “He remembers you.”

“That doesn’t look a thing like me,” Robert objected.

From the quality, Arthur dated the image to be back around the Great War, Robert kitted out in the British standard, three other men at his side. Robert had spent that time with the newly formed Air Corps, using his skills to snipe enemy crafts over allied territories – Arthur remembered Robert recounting during an air raid in the Forties spending time in Hungary and the Czech, liberating goods from the privileged while on leave. Tepes was a Hungarian surname – if these men were hired Russians and after something from the First World War…this was quickly becoming something that Arthur wanted no part of, and Maureen had no business being involved in. He tightened his grip around her shoulders, holding her close to his side.

“Robert,” Arthur said in a low voice, keeping his eye on the man with the gun. “It was a pleasure seeing you again, but I feel like we should really be on our way.”

“You and the old lady stay,” the Russian said with false joviality. Arthur felt Maureen bristle in indignation. “He had been looking for you for quite some time, Mister Locksley.” 

“I’ll bet he has.” Arthur shifted his weight slightly as he saw Robert’s arm slowly adjusting in the dark. He had seen the speaker before, Arthur realized - in the gym, the man he had written off. His match fight hadn’t been Robert’s ploy, then; it had been orchestrated on far more levels than Arthur had imagined, a trap to draw Robert out during his stay. The man had rarely been able to resist the temptation of a good bet if the stakes were high enough. Often times losing merely mean he knew the measure of his next target, and how deep their pockets dipped.

When the first gunshot rang, Arthur didn’t quite register the sound. He had already moved, wrapped his arms around Maureen and buried his face in her narrow shoulders, a human shield against the world. The second shot felt like fire searing through his back. She was shaking like a leaf, hands scrabbling at his shirt as she tried to keep him upright.

It just figured that Robert would drag Arthur into another fight with men who wanted him dead. One thing never changed – the witnesses always went first.

In the distance he could hear other muted shots, the shouts and sound of Robert dealing with the men, but the sound of Maureen’s harsh breathing and panic against his ear far more present. He tried to quiet her, one hand reaching up to pull her head close, keep her still, feeling his fingers slip against her skin, dark smudges against white.

“It’s alright, Morgana,” Arthur slurred, pulling out a dark smile. “Shh, just…just give me time.”

The world was shifting around him now and there was a sudden jarring pain as something impacted with his back. The rough feeling of bark suggested a tree. That made sense. He hadn’t died against a tree yet, as far as he could remember. Back alleys, hung twice, that notable time in the Thames. It might be nice, a tree. Someone was rummaging about in his pockets, searching – that, at least, was familiar.

Arthur’s heart was beating triple time, each thud echoing through his ears and lungs until it felt like the earth itself had picked up the chorus.

“999 won’t do him any good, woman,” Robert’s voice snapped through Arthur’s daze.

“You just shot three men!” Maureen shouted, with her hand pressing down on Arthur’s chest. Arthur could feel himself bleeding out against the tree; one gunshot had torn through the meat of his shoulder and clean through his front leaving his back a mess, the other lodged somewhere in his chest. He was dying, but Maureen didn’t need to be reminded. “You’re a mad man, you –“

“Shh, Morgana…” Arthur reached out to the dark shape curled over him protectively. He felt the cold creeping up his limbs.

“We need to get him to hospital!”

“Come on, Pendragon,” Robert’s voice was stern. “I’m not digging you up this time.”

Arthur coughed through a grin. His eyesight had left him and he could no longer feel Maureen’s hands. “Would you find me a bard while I waited, then?” He wasn’t certain his voice was even loud enough for Robert to hear.

“Two. I’ll get Jedward to sing about what an utter tosser you are,” Robert agreed.

“Merlin would love that,” Arthur murmured as he lost his grip on the world.

**ooOOoo**

Arthur is floating. The water is cool against his skin in the summer heat, the sky a brilliant blue broken by the occasional white cloud. He thinks vaguely that he’s skiving off something or another, but he can’t quite remember what that might be and can’t bring himself to be worried; not on a day like this.

“Arthur, you can’t neglect your duties forever, you know.” Merlin has waded into the lake, coming to block Arthur’s light and grinning down at Arthur’s scowl. Arthur had thought the water deeper than that.

Arthur lifts a hand, beckoning the man closer idly. When Merlin leans down, Arthur can think of no better way to stop his voice of reason than a hand on the back of Merlin’s neck, pulling him down and under. They surface, Merlin spluttering, drenched and disgruntled, Arthur laughing at the sight he makes; sodden clothes and dripping hair.

Merlin looks as though he will open his mouth again, ruining the day with words. Arthur heads him off, darting forward to press lips against Merlin’s, firm and final.

“This isn’t how the memory goes,” Merlin says once Arthur lets him go.

Arthur is lying. The long grasses brush against his tunic and there, just above him, a star falls across the sky. He thinks to himself that the luxury of a night such as this is now few and far between. It’s not often he has the chance to venture out without a retinue – or is it that the night sky is no longer as brilliant as it once was? Arthur pictures the distant glow of cities dulling the contrast of his sight, then shakes off the idea – Camelot’s fires have never shone bright enough to ruin the night, so where had he…?

“And you called me a layabout,” Merlin settles down at Arthur’s side, staring up at the heavens. 

Arthur can’t quite remember why it feels like seeing Merlin stoppers a gaping hole in his chest; like he hasn’t seen the man in longer than Arthur deems acceptable. Surely he had seen Merlin that morning? If not, the day before, or the day before that.

“They’re waiting for you, you know,” Merlin turns to look at Arthur, head propped atop his folded arms.

Arthur doesn’t want to go back just yet, so he rolls onto Merlin, earning a grunt as his weight forces the air out of the man’s lungs and he closes his eyes, content to be a dead-weight for a time. Merlin huffs but does nothing to dislodge his Prince - King - Arthur.

“They need you, Arthur,” Merlin’s voice sounds like it comes directly from his chest, reverberating through Arthur’s ear and into his skull. Arthur wonders why he can’t seem to hear the thud of Merlin’s heart, or why the body beneath him feels no warmer than the night air.

Arthur tries to imagine if there was a reason he thinks the man might just fade away into the grasses and wind. Tries to find a way to make sure that would never happen. 

“I need you, Merlin,” Arthur says, knowing it’s not enough.

Arthur is sleeping.

“Arthur, it’s time to wake up.”

**ooOOoo**

Arthur woke with a gasp, the sound of Edith Piaf cranked loud in the distance and the soft feel of a bed beneath him. He felt like he had the worst case of heartburn.

His shirt was crumpled in a ball in the corner, soaked so dark he doubted the colour would ever wash out. The holes through the middle would probably make it one for the bin anyhow. He’s wearing a pair of worn grey sweatpants and he’s certain they aren’t his own.

“Locksley?” he bellowed. Arthur couldn’t remember much of last night, but he did remember he had been with Robert.

“If you want breakfast,” a woman’s voice called from beyond the bedroom door, music lowering to a faint murmur, “you’re going to have to come down and fetch it yourself.”

Arthur blinked, staring up at the ceiling feeling like he was missing something important. Pressing a hand against his chest to ease his muscles, Arthur rolled to the side of the bed, letting his legs find the ground and he levered himself upright.

There were books lining the walls. A framed map of the old Roman Empire boundaries, dated just after the construction of Hadrian’s Wall to the north, hung over the bed. An old Persian rug graced the floor. Arthur limped over on bare feet to a desk pushed up under a west facing window, picking up a gold gilt frame and turning it into the light. A young Morgana looked back, smiling with arms wrapped about two small children dressed smartly and looking rather disgruntled at the photographer.

He had been with Morgana last night. Maureen. Maureen had seen him die.

And now she was making him breakfast. Arthur wasn’t sure that was a good thing.

There was nothing in the closet by way of clothing, a couple of old boxes labelled in Maureen’s neat hand, a pile of blankets on the top shelf, three empty wire hangers pushed off to the side. There was an aged mirror leaned up against the back of the closet and Arthur twisted, rubbing a hand down his back as he inspected where he remembered getting hit. Someone had wiped him down after he had healed, only a few dried specks of blood remained where they had missed. He ran a nail under the marks, flaking them off dutifully until no trace was left. 

Arthur took a deep breath, steadying his reflection amid the brown spots of age creeping in on the silver. He grabbed a thin faded quilt from the shelf, pulling it about his shoulders like a shoddy mantle as he turned to face the day. 

Arthur remembered the stairs from his last visit, framed photos lining the walk and a fresh grey runner tacked down each step. Maureen’s life in France, her visits to Brussels and Reims; her husband as young boy, hefting a rifle with the Resistance, and again pushing boats at the Tullaries with his children. There were two new photos Arthur hadn’t seen before and he paused on the fifth step, bare feet stilling on the worn carpet runner covering the stairs. The first was a wedding photo, Maureen’s grand-daughter standing proud next to a young lad with brown hair pulled neatly back and dark square glasses resting atop his nose. Gaius. Arthur smiled, tracing a hand across the side of the frame. It had to be from that weekend Maureen had disappeared a few months prior – she had said something at the time about a wedding; he’d never asked whose. He blinked, a bit taken aback, taking a step down to see the other closer. It was Arthur, arms folded and staring out the leaded yellow and red glass of Maureen’s office. It was familiar, the image reminding him so vividly of his old chambers so many lifetimes ago that he almost believed for a moment that maybe the impossible had happened. He didn’t remember her taking it. Maybe Maureen _remembered_ , even a little bit. 

Unlikely.

But still - somehow he had made it onto her family wall regardless.

Maureen walked out of her kitchen, one hand on her hip the other pointing a knife in Arthur’s direction. “I’ve never liked your English breakfasts, so there’s some toast and jam on the table and a pot of tea. If you give it five, there will be muffins cool enough to eat.”

Arthur trailed after her when she disappeared back into the kitchen, not quite knowing what to expect from her. The Morganas he had encountered over the years had never been predictable, not in the way some of the others had. Lance was always noble, Gwaine was always a rascal. Morgana was an enigma. He slid into a seat at her round table, eyes trained on her as she moved about the kitchen. She placed a teacup before him, a spoon to his right and proceeded to simply stare at him in a most unnerving manner.

Growing up with Morgana as he had, Arthur felt he was well trained at beating down the unease that sprang from her stares. He picks up his spoon in a carefully measured grip, stirs his tea once, twice and taps the spoon lightly before putting it down. There is the perfect amount of milk already, a fine beige colour staring back.

“Have you nothing to say for yourself?” Maureen arched an eyebrow, her glasses settled low on her nose.

“What would you like me to say?” It wasn’t often Arthur had someone to face the morning after he had died – when he did, they had seemed to share the trend of calling him an abomination of some sort or making themselves scarce rather quickly. A few times it had meant another, rather more painful death that had taken longer to recover from. Social etiquette for post-death conversation over tea and biscuits had really never come up before.

“You’ve been unconscious for three days. I should think you could start with apologizing for making us worry.”

“I…three days?” Arthur’s cup rattled alarmingly against his saucer as he nearly upset it and he hastened to settle the china, wincing at the tea he had sloshed over the rim. He had never been out for more than a few hours where death was involved, much as he sometimes had wished it.

“Arthur.” Maureen was staring at him with a firm frown. 

“Thank you for your hospitality, and I am quite apologetic for giving you cause to worry – for the past four days, or any of my offenses over the past year,” Arthur recited dutifully, falling back on the training of his youth as he thought. The old woman had a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth and Arthur filed the image away to remember in a few years’ time when he left her behind and began anew. Robert had left her for him, and he would have to remember to thank the man when he could. While he could, Arthur returned a warm smile, saying, “I’m glad you’re still here, Maureen.”

“Where else would I be, you bear-headed simian.”

“Robert might have shot you.” By all rights, he should have. Robert lived by one strict rule: that they left no witnesses to their curse – the fact that Maureen was still breathing was a gift Arthur appreciated more than he would care to admit. He’d lost Gwaine that way, once; Arthur had married his wilful sister by way of apology, keeping her safe from the witch trials of Edinburgh and raising her newborn son as best he could. 

“Like I would let an Englishman shoot me,” Maureen said crisply.

“No, that would have been too much to bear, I’m sure.” He smiled at the table. “I’m glad he didn’t.”

She cast him a shrewd look. “Because you think I am your sister, Morgana.”

“Because I _know_ you are Maureen Lafayette, and a tough old biddy,” Arthur said firmly. He had said too much, it seemed. Morgana always had been more perceptive than Arthur; it was no wonder she continued to be so through her lives.

“Was it true, then? The Once and Future King is studying English Lit at Oxford and Robin Hood is a smart-mouthed author.”

“I’m sorry.” Arthur wondered if Robert had already left town – if the man had somehow managed to get on the wrong side of Vlad Tepes he was best off as far from Europe as he could manage. Arthur had never met Vlad himself – he seemed to be rooted to Western Europe rather firmly – but there had been no shortage of stories about his penchant for impaling his enemies like macabre statues outside his keep over the years. Perhaps that was how the man had attained immortality – a continuous stream of blood to pay for his existence. It was a grisly thought.

“You had better be, young man. You’re defying logic, history and science – and you made a fool of me over drinks.”

Arthur was half a mind to think it was their conversation at the _Head of the River_ that bothered her most of all. “History isn’t always recorded accurately, particularly when magic is concerned. I think you’ll find in that case, logic and science fall into line.”

“If I hadn’t seen you shot three days ago, I would be incredibly angry at you for such a ridiculous tale. As it is, I am incredibly angry at you for having such a secret and _still_ engaging in such a reckless pastime.”

“You know, I’m over a thousand years old and you’re upset with me about punching men for sport,” Arthur laughed rather involuntarily.

“You should know better, then. I should expect that an ex-king would be above such a dangerous and vulgar affair.”

“I can’t believe that you still lecture me, even knowing what you do now. You’ll never change.”

“Simia simia est, etiamsi aurea gestet insignia,” Maureen retorted. _An ape is an ape even if it wears smart clothes._ “Now I have a stack of term papers on Latin source materials that need to be graded as well as a number of prospectuses including one on Roman influence in Old English literature that need comments and suggested additional readings.” Arthur blinked in surprise as Maureen let a pile of papers thud against the table before him, a fountain pen placed firm in their centre. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“You expect me to do all of this?” The stack was near on a foot high. “In a few _hours_?” 

“I expect you to do your chivalric best to alleviate a terrible workload from an old woman who has been hovering over your deathbed for three days,” Maureen said as she was pulling on her green trench coat and sorting through a dish on her sideboard for her keys. “Robin Hood disappeared into the woodwork and I wouldn’t trust that man one whit with my scholars, author or no.”

“And where are _you_ off to?” Arthur had the terrible thought that perhaps he misjudged Maureen Lafayette; that perhaps this was her scampering off to the authorities or media or secret service, ready to sell Arthur out for one thing or another. He always knew he would have to run eventually, but the thought of silencing Maureen had never factored. Arthur had never expected to die in the quiet hills of Oxfordshire.

But Maureen – brilliant, wonderful Maureen – seemed to sense the turn his thoughts had taken and shot him an admonishing look. “You have lived a hard life, Arthur, and one day you will tell me your story, but I have spent three days in this house and my one life continues on. Those papers are the least you can do for the trauma you’ve put me through, don’t you agree?”

Arthur let out a deep sigh as he heard the front door close, deciding perhaps he had judged her right all along, vindictive sense of humour and all. He pushed the stack of papers to the side, pulling off the topmost prospectus and began to read.

**ooOOoo**

[He woke to the feel of a cool breeze against softening skin, his legs folded awkwardly beneath himself in the short grass. He had been standing once, he was certain, arms stretched upwards towards the dark blue of the night sky. He can’t quite remember how he fell.

It was late, the moon was well on its way towards the horizon and still he hadn’t shifted. He couldn’t remember moving at all, so he wasn’t quite sure where he would move _to_ even if he were so inclined. He remembered the feel of the wind through his fingers and across his limbs; the feel of rain and earth beneath his feet. He didn’t remember the glow of civilization in the near distance or the sounds of laughter passing faintly by. It wasn’t as though one could replace a forest in the blink of an eye. 

He decided he was a little mad.

“Are you alright, there?”

He turned at the sound of a woman’s voice sparking a sense of familiarity in his mind. She was older than he expected, strands of grey through her dark hair and fine-rimmed glasses on her nose. She spoke in a language he felt should be unfamiliar, and yet knew it had surrounded him for longer than he could place. 

_I know you,_ he said as she tilted her head. _Who is King in this land?_

“That sounds like a Gaelic dialect; I’ll admit my Latin’s better,” she said with a smile. “How’s your English?”

“I don’t know,” he said carefully, shaping his mouth around sounds he had been storing while he stood. He had been good with languages, once. He had taught himself, and he thinks he may have once taught others. “I think I’m hungry.”

“Where are your clothes? They still arrest people for public indecency, you know.”

“I…cannot…can’t remember.” He was rather certain he had been wearing something the last time he had thought to check, though that time seemed distant and unimportant now. He had adapted and he had weathered storms well enough over the years.

She shucked off a long coat, holding it out expectantly. He looked at it for a moment and remembered someone else doing the same, a fondness and exasperation in the action. He thinks he may have been flying. Or falling. Feathers were somehow involved. The memory pains him, so he lets it go again.

“Come on now, let’s get you home.” He wasn’t quite sure what to say to that, so he pushed himself to shaky feet and let her help him into the jacket, cinching the flat belt about his waist. Home, he knew vaguely was supposed to mean something, but when he tried to picture it, home came in a flash of joyful laughter and a deep-set emptiness he could hardly bear. He didn’t want to go home. “If you were Mr Penn’s size, you would look ridiculous,” she said as she dusted off her hands, holding one out to him. “Maureen Lafayette, Classical Linguist Professor.”

“Le Fay,” he murmured. His hand felt warm against hers.

“...where are you staying?”

“I don’t know. This is the only place I remember.”

Maureen gave him an appraising look. He rubbed a hand up and down his arm. “You really are a bit fey, aren’t you; not at all the drunkard I expected.”

“I’m not much for drink, and I’m not one of the Fey,” he said more than a little confused. For some reason he felt it was imperative to clarify that. “I’m just…Merlin.”

Maureen laughed at that, strong and loud in the night air like a dark shadow of a golden memory. “Of course you are. Oh he will just love that - that I found you. Did Geoffrey of Monmouth teach you Latin as well?”

“I think I knew…know?... _knew_ a Geoffrey. He liked books.” Merlin fell into step beside her.

“You and I are going to have a long chat once we find you some pants.”]

**ooOOoo**

It was well into evening when Arthur grew tired of eating baked goods and correcting papers. Maureen still had not returned from her outing, but Arthur was resolutely Not Thinking About what that might mean. There also hadn’t been police or reporters breaking down her door either, so on the matter he was Not Thinking About, he counted it a good sign.

He left the assignments in two neat stacks on Maureen’s kitchen table, the faded quilt folded beside, and slipped out the back door. The Duke was propped up against the back wall in all its rusted glory and Arthur offered Robert a silent thanks – walking would have taken at least an hour, he had no mind to wait about for public transit and he rather desperately wanted to lock himself away in his own space for at least a fortnight. He would have appreciated Robert’s motorbike a slight chance more.

Arthur’s ride from Maureen’s home in Summertown was far less monumental than perhaps it should have been; he still wasn’t sure that Robert had dealt with everything associated with their encounter, or if Vlad had singled out Arthur himself as a person of interest. He had managed to keep a low enough profile over the years and had no intention of broadcasting himself out to all and sundry. Besides, being shot once that week was enough – Arthur hardly wanted to discover a handful of gangsters lying in wait along his way, with the state he was in.

His main concern, as his feet moved in almost lazy revolutions, was keeping his eyes open, not slipping back into the darkness. It was there in the darkness that Arthur could still feel the brush of grass against his skin and Merlin’s voice against his ear. Small snatches of the life he’d had when everything had been – while not perfect – just this side of right, still shifting against his lids.

Arthur forced his focus onto getting back to his flat, thoughts pivoting around a well-deserved shower and a clean pair of pants. Simple things.

He would pack tonight. He had lost three days already, and he had long since learned that it was best to be prepared to move on at the drop of a hat, particularly when one had been shot. Granted, the last time he had been shot was during the war, and the time before that, in the 19th century, but it was a good rule to live by nonetheless. He would give Maureen a few days wherein he would submit the dissertation sitting on his computer to his department early – he had written it years ago, tucked behind a cashbox in a second-hand bookshop in Clerkenwell. If there was no need to run this time, he didn’t intend to. He had told Maureen it was time to stop running. Perhaps he could hole himself up in Oxford and follow Robert’s path, writing his own memoirs. Robert had been right. No one would know if they were true or not, and at least his friends would be properly remembered to even a handful of readers. Besides, plenty of eccentric writers hid themselves away from the world – he might even be able to weather out a good sixty or so years before having to move on. 

His flat was still locked tight when Arthur let himself in, bracing the door with a bare shoulder as he manhandled his bike inside and up the steps. Once upstairs he flipped it upside-down and propped it against the wall to keep it out of the way.

Despite appearances, someone had been in his flat. There was a black burner phone sitting conspicuously on his counter that hadn’t been there when he’d left on Friday. Arthur picked it up, flipping the mobile over in his hands. At the touch of a button, the screen lit up to a handful of texts from the same unknown number. He tossed the mobile back on the counter. Anything Robert had to say could wait – the man had got him shot.

Arthur’s flat was a small two bedroom tucked away near the train station. His front door opened directly into a narrow stairwell consisting of three steps, a right angle turn and five more before it opened into a sitting room of perhaps no larger than 200 square feet. There was a small kitchenette built into the back wall with a hotplate, half fridge and sink and a three foot window overlooking a patch of trees and some rubbish bins. On the left wall, three doors led to, in order, a toilet, a small study and a master bedroom, which was rather misleading in name. The master bedroom was really no more than four foot wider than the second bedroom Arthur had claimed as a study, though it fit a queen sized bed and nightstand all the same. Barely.

He had never lived as grandly as he once had, and he found he couldn’t bring himself to miss it. The size of his bed was his greatest luxury.

It was the toilet Arthur made his way to then, peeling off the trousers borrowed from who knew where and trying not to imagine Morgana or Maureen changing him while he lay unconscious. When the cold water of his ancient shower hit Arthur’s shoulders, he found it infinitely easier.

**ooOOoo**

Maureen was late into her office on Tuesday morning, and Arthur loitered about the hallway, one hand wrapped about a paper take-away cup half filled with mediocre Earl Grey. When she finally blustered in, she gave him an amused glance, one hand snaking around his elbow and dragging him through her door.

“You’re not going to believe what I found last night,” was Maureen’s opening gambit as she closed the office door behind Arthur, followed shortly by: “For God’s sake, Arthur, you look terrible.”

“Thank you, Lafayette,” Arthur responded dryly. He collapsed into her overstuffed armchair, spilling books and papers in the process. Unlike Morgana’s fastidiousness, Maureen was a walking disaster when it came to keeping things neat. Then again, neither he nor his sister had even been given the chance to be anything other than perfect. Arthur had actually put in a concentrated effort to make the impressive messes he left for Merlin daily in their early years; it was unfortunate the other man hadn’t appreciated the effort as he should have.

“A naked man,” Maureen continued, opening her blinds and pushing open the windows. “You should have been there.”

Arthur choked. “What?”

Maureen grinned wolfishly at him over her spectacles. “He was sitting near that wooded area, over by Iffley, bare as the day he was born.”

“Now what were you doing over there?” Arthur eyed her suspiciously.

“That’s all I get? Call it closure – I did watch four men _die_ the other day. He’s young – your age, I’d reckon.” She paused, reconsidering. “Your age, I suppose, if you were the age you looked. I think you’d get on well.”

“If I didn’t know better, I would think this was a terribly ham-handed attempt at setting me up,” Arthur said, unable to shake the sinking feeling that Maureen was up to something. Morgana had always been of that rare breed that took in strays, regardless of size or species. It explained why she had taken to Merlin when he first wandered into court, aided orphans in the lower town and that druid boy that turned into a monster – why Arthur had seven parakeets forced on him in the height of the social season when Morgana-as-Margaret had abducted them from the trading docks. It explained why Maureen had warmed so quickly to Arthur, alone and solitary in Oxford, getting into scrapes with his boxing matches.

“I think he’s one of yours, and anyway, he just needs a place to stay – his memory’s a bit shoddy, but he’s an absolute doll.”

“Absolutely not,” Arthur said firmly. “If by ‘one of yours’ you mean what I think you mean, that’s even more reason to refuse. And you shouldn’t be wandering about on your own in disreputable places.”

“Nonsense. I’m old enough to be your…” Maureen trailed off before gathering herself and starting anew. “I’m old enough to go where I like with the last years I have, and besides, I found a lovely young man to escort me.”

“Who could be Oxford’s answer to Jack the Ripper. I’m an exception, not a rule – and Robert is hardly classifiable in any regard.”

“He’s harmless and it would be good for you, Arthur. Trust me.”

“A strange man you found in the woods is hardly a stray dog you can pass off onto other people,” Arthur argued. “And if you recall, I was recently _shot_. I live alone for a reason.”

“He’ll come find you when he’s got himself sorted,” she said, ignoring his protests as she always had. “I suspect you won’t be difficult to track down.” And Arthur still knew one of Morgana’s subtle threats when he heard one, a trait Maureen had held onto.

“How do I know he’s not going to try killing me in my sleep? I don’t exactly have a good track record with house mates.” And besides, Arthur thought grimly, anyone poking about in the place he had died was suspicious enough already. The problem was that Arthur knew every potential candidate for ‘one of yours’ in all of Albion by now – three of them in one place in such a short time was near unheard of. And only Robert knew who Arthur really was, that Arthur had a deeper history than one of the many nameless wanderers. He wondered if there was a fight heading his way. 

“Apparently I’m your sister, Arthur,” Maureen said as she began scanning her schedule. “You should trust me as one.”

An uncomfortable thought began festering in his mind – a thought he hadn’t had in centuries now.

“Do you remember?” Arthur said carefully. He watched Maureen’s hand clench slightly where it rested on her desk, the slow trail of her eyes up to his. “A life as my sister. A life as Morgana.” 

It was ridiculous. Of course it was ridiculous. He had ranted and railed at her for seven lifetimes; for betraying him, for betraying Gwen and Camelot and their father and _Merlin_. The first two lives, she had sent men after him to neutralize the ‘Mad Man of the fens’. The third she had come at him with a hidden knife and he had killed her by reaction. Other times he had tried to force a confession through negotiations, pulled out every memory he had of her life, played as a bard simply to watch her reaction to her life in song, had blatantly lied to her court, her village. She had never once given herself away.

“No,” she said.

And for once in this lifetime, Arthur wasn’t certain he believed her.

**ooOOoo**

Arthur had hit a rock, or a branch, a curb, or an uneven patch of path. He didn’t see. In any regard, it had sent him tumbling from the Duke gracelessly onto the grasses of Christ Church and he simply hadn’t bothered to right himself. Since taking his fall, he had received a number of disapproving glares from passing professors much the same as Geoffrey had been fond of expressing in Arthur’s youth. Arthur cared as little now as he had then.

The sky was blue overhead – not the dismal almost blue of a thin cloud cover, but the pure blue of a summer day. He let himself stare up into the sky until the colour burned itself into his eyes before he threw an arm over his face. The Duke was a light weight against his shins, and he could still remember a time when his horse had shied, tripping, sending both mount and rider to the ground. His right leg had been a deep, near-black bruise from groin to ankle. His horse had suffered nothing worse than a sprain.

Despite being fortunate enough to suffer no broken bones, Arthur had been out of training for a fortnight. It had taken three weeks before it was comfortable enough to sit in a saddle again. Merlin had grumbled the whole while about Arthur’s weight each time Merlin had to wrap an arm under Arthur’s shoulders and help him limp to his desk, his bath, his chair – enough so that the new physician had fashioned Arthur a long crutch wrapped in sheepskin to ease his way. After the first day, it had sat untouched in the corner of his chambers, and Merlin groused and complained and Arthur smirked and ordered. He knew neither of them had truly wanted to give up their ritual.

Once the bruises had faded to a manageable yellow, Arthur had stopped demanding Merlin help him to his feet at dinner, though Merlin had silently continued to fuss in the privacy of Arthur’s chambers during long nights of reviewing council minutes or supply allocations and Arthur had never seen the need to stop him.

“Professor Lafayette said you would be out here,” said the Merlin in Arthur’s head, distant, despite their proximity. “Mr Penn?”

It took him a moment to realise the voice had come from outside his musings. Arthur repressed his urge to groan, holding onto the feeling of peace he had managed to wrangle out of the darkness. “If you have a question regarding Latin conjugation my next tutoring session isn’t until seven,” he grit out, determinedly not moving from his sprawl. “You can bugger off and call on me again during office hours.”

“My Latin is perfect,” said the voice, and Arthur wondered if he was imagining the slight affront in tone, “and you’ll have to tell me what ‘office hours’ are.”

“Cur etiam hic es.” _Why are you still here?_

“Res firma mitescere nescit.” _A firm resolve doesn’t know how to weaken._

Arthur snorted. “Resolve in what?”

“Professor Lafayette said you might have a room to let?” the man replied. “I need a place to stay.”

Arthur let his arm fall away, blinking up at the clouds edging their way across the sky. “Look, I don’t know what she…“ Arthur trailed off as he turned his head to look at the man properly, his lungs refusing to cooperate.

“I’m not that appalling a prospect, am I?” Merlin said with an awkward smile. “I really do need a place to stay.”

“No, I…” Arthur disentangled his legs, picking up his bicycle and tossing it aside as he sat up. There were a hundred thousand things he wanted to say to Merlin, and he couldn’t for the life of him remember what the words were.

“Merlin,” Merlin supplied rather unnecessarily, holding out a hand, either to shake or help Arthur to his feet. Arthur’s hand automatically grasped the extended limb, though he made no attempt to stand. In truth, he wasn’t certain his own limbs would support the attempt. 

Instead, he snorted a blustering noise to cover his discomfort. “Of course you are. _Really,_ Merlin.”

“You really are a bit of an arse, aren’t you?”

“Pardon…? Merlin –“ Arthur’s brain was still trying to catch up to the idea that his eyes weren’t deceiving him.

Merlin gave Arthur’s hand a bit of a tug and Arthur realised he was still holding on. He didn’t feel inclined to let go. With his free hand he pushed off the ground, forcing Merlin to take his weight or be pulled down in the process and hoping rather fiercely that his knees would lock into place. He wondered if he could get away with just wrapping his arms around the man, holding him for as long as it took for Arthur to gather his composure.

He was just about to until Merlin asked carefully, “You _are_ Mr Penn, yes? Professor Lafayette saw you from a window, though I suppose she could have been mistaken.”

“I…Merlin, don’t be such a twat,” Arthur’s voice sounded of false bravado. He couldn’t decide if that was better or worse than sounding like he was outright falling apart. 

“She did say you would be difficult.”

“…you don’t know who I am?” Arthur dearly regretted standing, composure be damned - even more so when Merlin forcefully retracted his hand from Arthur’s grip. It was normal for the Oxford soil to feel like a gaping hole beneath his feet, wasn’t it?

Of the hundred thousand words he wanted to say, and the hundred thousand times Arthur had imagined meeting Merlin again, not once had he ever imagined that Merlin might not remember him. In every scenario half imagined on dark nights in York, or sitting on the shores of Pernarth, not one had allowed for the possibility that Merlin, like Gwen and Percival and Leon, might forget. He could do this though. He had done this countless times before, when the hurt was still raw and the hope was still strong. He had fumbled his way through so many of the others and made a fool of himself a dozen times over before he got used to the idea that no matter what he said, they didn’t remember. Arthur just never thought he’d have to do it with Merlin.

Merlin had always been different. Merlin had always known the answer before Arthur knew there was a question. If anyone was worth _trying_ for, Merlin was it.

He could do this.

“You teach Latin with Professor Lafayette,” Merlin was saying. “Aside from that, now I’m not entirely certain I want to.”

“I tutor in Latin, there’s a difference,” Arthur replied distractedly, too focused on the small wrinkle upon Merlin’s brow accompanying his frown. Arthur’s hands clenched into fists at his sides to stop himself from reaching out to run a thumb across it; to stop from reaching out to pull him close and thump him hard on the back just to reaffirm his existence.

“Right, you won’t have me; I’ll just find something myself then.” Arthur jolted back into himself as Merlin turned away, marching tightly back towards the quad. 

“You can stay at mine. God, _please_.” He wasn’t proud of the desperation that was gripping his soul. He also wasn’t certain that having Merlin – this Merlin who turned out to be just like the others – sharing his space would be a blessing or an exquisite, Arthur-brand torture. All Arthur knew was that if Merlin said no, if he turned and walked away, that would be infinitely worse.

Merlin looked down at where Arthur gripped his arm, and Arthur held on resolutely, loosening his fingers only the barest amount in the hopes his grip wasn’t tight enough to bruise. “I can’t pay you, not yet.”

“Pay?” Arthur floundered for a moment, trying to piece together what Merlin and money meant in the same context.

“Maureen said you were rather keen on finding a flatmate to help pay the rent, but you might be amendable to a houseguest for time; said your manners have been frightening off all your prospects. I feel like I’ve handled worse. I’ll be finding employ -“

Merlin looked so resolute in his decision that Arthur’s initial response of telling him not to be ridiculous stuttered and died in his throat about the same time Arthur remembered that the breadbox of a second bedroom in his flat had long since been converted into a makeshift library and study. 

“I’m sure we can sort out an arrangement in the meantime,” Arthur said easily. “You could always clean the flat and sort out suppers,” he added hastily. At the dark flicker across Merlin’s face, Arthur found he wished he could stop opening his mouth wide enough to fit in his foot. 

This life he had truly was hell.

**ooOOoo**

[There was a pounding in his head, and had been since he had first set eyes on the blond man waiting in the other room.

Merlin let his head rest against his forearms, propped up with the cool white ceramic-clad wall for support. He didn’t like the feeling. It was as though the very presence of the man was digging at, bombarding him, picking at something inside him that had barely scabbed over, and it felt like his mind was threatening to tear itself apart - like much longer, and he would go mad. 

The water at his back had long since run cold – truly, it had been lukewarm at best when he’d first stepped under the spray, like a warm summer rain. He had simply stood, letting the water soak and trail across his limbs. It felt different than it had, than he remembered, though he couldn’t place how. Perhaps it felt _more_ , as though his skin was softer, more vulnerable to the elements. He doesn’t know why all these knobs and amenities seem so confounding. Maureen had likely despaired of him and his questions.

There is a deep-seated weariness that feels as though it has seeped straight down to his bones, taken up residency and resolutely refuses to be dislodged. He is more than a little bewildered, still far beyond any sort of comfort zone despite the shoddy front he adopted for survival. He spent hours doing nothing but listen to the woman that found him, absorbing everything he could manage, followed by hours more of translating the veritable library at her disposal. Merlin lets his eyes fall closed, listening to the dull thud of his own heart, tries to find that centre of calm he knows was there once, tries to listen deeper to the beat he can feel at the edge of his senses.

The pulsing thump.

His eyes snap open when his feet start losing purchase on the slick seamless tile. His hands brace against the wall as he stares at his legs and they feel as though they are softening, returning their shape, their purpose. The feeling brings with it an edge of terror and he notices for the first time that his arm feels stiff, darker and rough. He scrabbles for soap, strange and liquid, promising moisture in bold red font. He upends it on his forearm and scrubs and scrubs until his skin evens out; until there is nothing but a painful red bruise left. Something to ground him. Something to question his own sanity with.

He takes a shaky breath and then another. Decides that he has been awake too long and experienced more than any man had right to, even if he can’t quite remember it all. What he needs are answers. What he needs more is rest.

Merlin had been trying to place _himself_ for two days now. He felt he had a slightly better grip on things though – he had stopped slipping into other languages when he was surprised, despite how familiar they felt in the face of the language of this place. He still had to listen carefully and dreg up things he had heard in passing, lurking in the back of his memory.

He could do it, though. He could adapt.

Or he could curl back into the darkness, where it was warm and calm and listen to the heartbeat of the earth.]

**ooOOoo**

Arthur was sitting on his narrow brown plaid chesterfield staring blankly at the wall, a novelty pillow of a bulldog in a bowler hat held in a white knuckled grip on his lap.

Merlin was in the shower.

At least, Arthur hoped Merlin was in the shower, otherwise Arthur would have been sitting outside his meagre washroom working himself into a right state as the old pipes creaked for a half hour over nothing. Then he really would finally have tangible proof of his madness.

For all his experience, Arthur Pendragon had no idea how to proceed.

When he had brought Merlin back to his flat, trailing him up the short staircase and into his living space, Merlin had looked about and simply said, “It’s smaller than I expected.” Arthur had clenched his jaw and felt like he had failed somehow in Merlin’s eyes. A hundred words piled up in his throat – that this was only to keep a low profile, that he rarely spent time here. Arthur had very nearly dialled a realtor then and there to sweep Merlin off to a country estate home. That is, until Merlin had added a few moments later, “I like it.”

Arthur glared at the bundle of clothes rolled tight and resting on his counter as though ready to be strapped down to a saddle, mocking Arthur with its unfair familiarity. Merlin might be living in a modern England, but he certainly seemed to act like he was anywhere but. His little quirks were infuriating. It was as though this incarnation was determined to drive Arthur mad, and he had only known the man for a handful of hours. Arthur threw his pillow across the room and got determinedly to his feet. At least the others had the decency to change their names. This had Morgana written all over it.

The bedroom was already mostly devoid of personal touches, but Arthur shifted the bundle under his bed to stand propped in the corner of his study and grabbed the packed duffle from his closet to shove under the small desk. With a steadying breath, he went about stripping the linens from the bed to keep himself busy. He would have to order a new bed, make some room in the study for a twin, though there was hardly enough room for the desk and all his books as it was. For the time, he just piled his old bed linens on the floor along with his damn bulldog pillow. He’d slept on worse.

The pipes had stopped groaning and Arthur had just about stopped fretting over the building’s seeming inability to produce enough decent hot water for a proper shower. He edged a stack of books aside with one foot before slipping out of the study, pulling the door shut tightly behind him. He regretted the decision when Merlin walked out of the washroom towelling his hair with the same finesse he used to towel Arthur’s horse, bare as the day he was born. Arthur’s hand went lax on the door’s handle, his eyes drifting across every inch of the man on display as Merlin wandered over to his clothing bundle. Arthur’s mind caught up to his eyes and he forced himself to stare hard at the floor.

It wasn’t the first time Arthur had ever seen all of Merlin, and certainly Merlin had in turn seen his fair share of Arthur through hot summers and frequent baths – that one time in the middle of the night with too much wine and an unscrupulous brotherhood of knights. But since those times, Arthur had watched society shifting about him; the mores brought about by religion and living through the Victorian age. Now, the idea of such casual display seemed brazen and far more scandalous than Arthur had ever thought Merlin capable of – even best mates didn’t wander about their flats starkers after bathing now. 

“I’ll just…” Arthur gestured weakly with one hand, failed to come up with a suitable finish and found himself back in his study, back pressed firmly against the door. He let his head knock against the wood a few times, closing his eyes and trying not to picture what he had left behind. Instead, he’s remembering Merlin stripping down at the edge of a river, throwing a wide grin over his shoulder; he’s remembering Merlin soaking in a hot bath, complaining about the new servants as Arthur chuckled in his square-backed chair. He’s remembering how complicated things felt back then, and how simple they looked from here.

He’s remembering the map of scars across Merlin’s body, and he’s remembering how now they’re all gone.

It wasn’t until he heard the latch catch on the bedroom door that Arthur dared venture out once more into his own flat. He gave the closed door a frown, leaning against the back of his couch. Mates didn’t wander about like that now…but back home, in the privacy of living quarters or the seclusion of the forest…

Or this Merlin was just a shameless tart.

**ooOOoo**

[He was too late. 

He knew the moment he cast himself across Albion and set foot upon the field at Camlann that he had sought his King too late.

Mordred lay still amongst the tattered blood-red banners of the rowan tree and Arthur – Arthur already had Mordred’s blade lodged deep in his side. He was lying, broken and covered in the grime of battle, equal parts blood and sweat and dirt, looking as Merlin had never wanted to see him again. 

Merlin could feel the restless drifting of the Cailleach on the edge of the battlefield, the spirits drifting aimlessly, confused while she worked. There was so much death – too much. Too many lives to make the crossing, too many still fighting the Cailleach’s call, fates unknown. He could feel Arthur shifting, moving to join with the others.

But he wasn’t yet _gone_ , and that was enough for Merlin.

Merlin eased the steel from his side, trying to ignore how even that brought no reaction from the man in his arms. Arthur wasn’t gone.

Because he wasn’t gone, Merlin – both a hundred leagues away and knelt close at his King’s side – reached deep into the earth and _pulled._ The land that Merlin had served and Arthur had helped prosper. The land that was still reeling at its loss, the battles that tore it apart and the magic ripped from its core. Merlin pulled, and backed that raw strength with his grief and rage and need and love all for the single chance to see his King as he was meant to be – as he had been once and would be again. A golden beacon in the dark.

And Merlin, who had been told time and again that he was unlike any sorcerer who had come before, pulled harder; remembered Arthur’s head thrown back in laughter, the corner of his smile when Merlin would dress him with care, the hand at his back when Arthur wanted to share something he thought was important. Merlin remembered blue eyes staring at him over a silver goblet next to the sea and he remembered hushed conversations in the dark of the night. He remembered everything that Arthur had been and was and should always be.

And Arthur opened his eyes.

Merlin’s relief roared in his ears, watching his King take a shuddering breath and smiled weakly under his focusing gaze. Arthur’s lips were moving, blood smeared across his mouth and down his cheek, but Merlin could hear none of it. There was a torrent of expressions that crossed Arthur’s face in the following moments, but Merlin’s vision was swimming and he leant down closer to Arthur, pressing his forehead against his King’s - trying to focus, to anchor himself on the battlefield. He needed to be here, not half a world away.

It was too much.

It was hardly enough, this last moment Merlin had ripped from the gate keeper, but he had poured out all he had left and he could feel his grip weakening, the battlefield fading. If he let go, he wasn’t certain what would happen. Avalon would welcome King Arthur – was likely already awaiting his feted arrival and wondering at each watery breath the King still took. A place among legend was waiting, as Arthur deserved. His memory deserved to live forever.

 _I couldn’t save you_.

Merlin sat back, fingers slowly withdrawing. He got to his feet, shutting out the look on Arthur’s face and he walked away; retreating back to where his body sat, back against the cold stone of his cave, fingers curled in the dirt by his knees. He would remember Arthur as he had been, joyful and strong, not the broken man on the field. Alive. Whole. Always.

His thirst came with the first light of dawn on the second day and with the legs of a colt, Merlin crawled from the darkness.

 _It’s a new dawn, Merlin,_ the Arthur from his memories said fondly as he had been wont to. Merlin felt as exhausted and spent as he had that day, standing vigil over Arthur’s mourning. Merlin choked out a broken laugh, standing at the edge of his stream and staring up at the blue sky above.

How simple it would be, Merlin thought to himself, watching the breeze tug at the branches overhead, to fade into the earth. Rocks and trees and streams knew no grief, felt no loss - held their memories like secrets and close at hand, no more than whispers in the thrum of magic.

The stars had come out overhead and still Merlin did not move.

He had lost his boots months ago, when the leather wore through, and it was simpler to kick them off as he walked than repair them. He dug his toes into the shifting bank and imagined he could feel the pulse of the earth running up from his soles to his fingertips. His eyes caught on the brightest light in the dark sky – the Dog Star, Arthur had told him once, though its proper name and the rest of the story Merlin had long since forgotten – perhaps if he just stretched far enough, he could catch it like a firefly in the summertime. Perhaps he could hold it close, keep at least this light from dying.

The stars faded, and still Merlin did not move.]

**ooOOoo**

When Arthur dreamt that night, curled up on the floor of his tiny study and wrapped in a bundle of thin linens, it was of home. 

The sunlight filtered in from between the white turrets of Camelot, and there was a familiar weight of a knife in his hand. The training grounds, Arthur realised, and he was turning before he even thought about it.

"Come on,” Arthur called across the field. A man stood clutching a large round target, staring blankly at Arthur. “Run! I want a _moving_ target.” And Arthur, spurred by the laughter at his back let five successive knives thunk into the wood carried by the hapless servant. The sixth felt heavy in his palm, and when the man tripped over his own feet, sending the target careening across the grass and chased after it, Arthur felt a heavier weight settle in his stomach. He watched absently as the man scrabbled at the straps, the target round quivering as he hefted it aloft again and Arthur found he was scanning the path between the Lower Town and the Citadel for something he couldn’t quite place. He glanced back at the target, stuck through with steel, and the shaking legs beneath it.

Someone was meant to have stopped him, surely? This wasn’t who Arthur was, or _wasn’t_ anymore.

“On your way,” Arthur said, suddenly weary of his sport; and what sport was it, really? His knights should have known better, should have said _something._ Had he taught them nothing? The man, no more than a boy in truth, took off in a headlong dash, target rolling, forgotten, in his haste to disappear. Arthur spent the rest of the daylight wandering the Lower Town in a bit of a daze, unsure just what he was looking for.

His father’s face that evening was that of a stranger, out of place in his memory, older, thinner and time-worn. When Arthur looked up from his supper, he saw Maureen sitting across from him with her streaks of grey and her dark rimmed spectacles, and his father…Arthur frowned.

“He is gone from here,” the man in his father’s chair said. “He is gone from me.” 

And with sudden clarity, Arthur was certain in that moment he could see himself.

Arthur woke to a hard wooden floor and a leather-bound tome wedged into his side. It was still dark out. He ran a hand roughly over his face. It couldn’t have been more than a handful of hours he had stolen in sleep.

Merlin.

It had been Merlin who had stopped him that day. Merlin who might, if the fates were kind, be sleeping ten feet from where Arthur lay, beyond the paper-thin walls.

Arthur rolled to his knees, his feet, balled up his blankets and kicked them under his desk. It was with a shaking hand that Arthur left the study and carefully eased open the bedroom door. There was a dark head nestled amongst the sheets, duvet bundled tightly around a curled body.

Arthur sank to the floor as his legs betrayed him. He had no idea how he was going to survive this.

**ooOOoo**

“Your new obsession with becoming a statue is incredibly distracting,” Maureen says in a low voice as she revises her lecture notes.

Arthur doesn’t deign to answer that, staring blankly at the article in his hands. He is acutely aware of the bent head across the room, hunched over a stack of books, silent and intent. Merlin has taken to studying anything and everything he gets his hands on – thanks to Maureen’s small library he is receiving a thorough grounding in Classics and History. Not that Arthur has been paying close attention to what the other man was reading. 

“I can only imagine what living with you two might be like,” Maureen sighs.

“It’s complicated,” Arthur says softly and without much conviction. “We have a rather unusual situation.”

That first morning, Arthur had retreated as soon as he was able to the living room, paced for an hour and then left to fetch breakfast. 

He had never been much of a cook. Every few decades he got it in his head to take a class or work as an undercook – and every last experience usually resulted in someone tossing him out on his ear. How hard could it be, really? Most of Britain dealt with boiling things to death or roasting over a fire – both of which were apparently rather difficult, when it came to. He was grateful when grocers branched out, and by ready-made shops sprung up like weeds. Arthur relied on take-away an unhealthy amount, to the point where his cupboards lacked anything resembling a proper dish – he had been eating out of cartons and paper wrap for so long now his shelves were near bare.

“What, is he living backwards, then?” Maureen’s mouth quirks in amusement, staring at Arthur over the top of her glasses. “Merlin, dear?” she called across to where Merlin emerged from his text. “Would you mind being a sweetheart and fetching me a tea? I have so much to do, and frankly without a cup, dealing with Mr Penn in this state would require a saint.”

Arthur is not amused to see the downright grin that breaks across Merlin’s face at that. Maureen hands him a few pounds with one of Morgana’s calculatingly indulgent smiles and sees him to the door.

“You boys, _really_. Arthur Penn being honest about his feelings is like stumbling across a bloody unicorn in Reading,“ Maureen said as she crossed back to her desk. “It’s no wonder they always wrote about a Boy King.”

“It’s not him. He doesn’t know me, Maureen,” Arthur snaps. “It’s not like I can just sit and reminisce with him –“

“Since _when_ ,” Maureen points the spine of a book at Arthur across her workspace, “did prior knowledge of someone become a pre-requisite to creating a relationship?”

“He’s _Merlin_ , Maureen. He looks and acts exactly -” Arthur jumped as the book in her hand crashed into the wall beside his head and he turned back to stare at her. “What –“

“Is he or isn’t he?” Arthur continued to stare at her, at the white knuckle grip around the arm of her chair, at the tightness of her mouth. “The rest of us, you have rather well defined in your mind. Either he is the person you knew, or he is his own man. The way I see it, he’s only ‘your Merlin’ when it’s convenient.”

They sat in silence until Merlin returned - more awkward, angry, tension-filled silence than Arthur could ever remember having with Morgana since before his father’s death. It made him resent Maureen more than he had any right to, as though she had ruined Maureen for him by dragging out Morgana. It was then that Arthur realised that perhaps she was right.

He kept reinventing himself and expected everyone else to stay the same.

**ooOOoo**

They fall into an uneasy routine. 

Arthur will wake with the dawn, shower and sort out a cold breakfast he had found at the shop the night before while waiting for Merlin to rouse himself. Merlin will drag himself out when Arthur, impatient and perhaps a little more concerned than he would ever voice about Merlin’s lethargy, raps sharply on his door. Arthur will stand vigil to ensure Merlin eats a decent share, poorly hidden behind one tome or another before heading off to the university. In return, Merlin spent his time keeping the living space clean, while the study remained off limits and Arthur’s old bedroom became a hazard zone. 

It is a routine that exists for the sole purpose of Arthur’s sanity. Something to focus on. Something to ground him. Something Maureen had insisted upon and Merlin had nodded traitorously to when he discovered Arthur had been skiving off ‘duties’ to sit in his flat staring at Merlin.

Merlin had agreed to meet Arthur in the afternoons for a late dinner or early supper, though, which was something at least. In the evenings, Arthur had stopped visiting the gym. Rather, he now brings home a book or two he thinks Merlin might enjoy and he sits silently on his couch, mostly-pretending to read the paper as Merlin indulges himself in Arthur’s bookshelves and their ever growing collection.

Arthur still hasn’t found himself a bed. He tells himself this is because of the hassle sneaking it by Merlin would be.

As far as routines go, theirs is a rather pleasant one – the unease, as most unease does, comes from emotionally constipated young men and unspoken arguments that usually begin with a muted why can’t I and end in a silent because I said so. Uneasy for Arthur, who constantly must remind himself not to stare, not to reach out and never let go, and uneasy for Merlin who still doesn’t fully understand why he needs Arthur to track down his National Insurance Number or sort out citizenship papers before he applies for a job and why Arthur insists on forcing an allowance on him in the meantime.

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says with a frown when Arthur asks the first time the subject of a job is broached. “If I could just get a job, I could afford things on my _own_. I don’t want your money.”

Arthur argues that it’s a gift, that it’s what friends do for one another and that he doesn’t mind, really. Merlin, tells him he’s not a charity case and doesn’t need a hand-out despite his lack of income – a lack of income he feels is being impeded by Arthur’s machinations. Just because he can’t remember a string of numbers in no way affects his ability to function and therefore is meaningless in the run of things. He wants to work at the bookshop.

Merlin can’t remember much of anything in his life, Arthur finds, nor has he any wallet or identification or missing persons reports to be found. Arthur nearly loses it when Merlin starts closing up under his inquisition and he puts in a few calls, sets up Merlin a false identity trail as solid as time constraints allow out of the fear that if Merlin doesn’t have the freedom to do as he pleases, he’ll up and leave. Arthur will follow, of course, but it’s much harder fabricating reasons for why Arthur would trail Merlin across Britain than it is finding a way to get Merlin a damn job, so Arthur works on one problem at a time. Once Merlin’s long-term memory comes back, ‘Marlin Freeman’ can easily disappear.

Arthur doesn’t want to consider what would happen if Merlin were to run farther than the shore.

When Arthur finally remembers about the burner phone lying forgotten, pushed up against the wall in his kitchen, it is well into the second week, and likely well past any time Arthur could respond should he have needed to. By now, Robert was on his merry way somewhere and his troubles were likely to follow.

The first text simply said: ‘Left town, Princess.’ The second: ‘Dracula suffering financial crisis – no interest homefront.’ It was the third and final message that gave Arthur pause, prompting him to stare at the door to his old bedroom where Merlin still slept.

 _Something happened in grove. Ever seen an Oak bleed?_  
  
Some stories claimed Merlin – but no. The tales had barely got anything accurate about Arthur’s life, what were the chances that they would know anything about Merlin’s? They claimed he ran off with Nimueh, or Vivian, or flitted back and forth through time. Spoke to owls. 

Or got trapped in a tree.

If only Morgana still had the Sight. If only he could trust her if she did. Trusting a magic-less Maureen was a far cry from trusting the witch hell-bent on his downfall.

**ooOOoo**

Maureen is standing with her back to the entrance, staring out across the college quadrangle when Arthur pushes open the door to her office that day. 

“Professor?”

“Terrified and angry.” Maureen’s voice was barely audible across the room and Arthur strained to hear her. “Backed into a corner, what was I supposed to become?”

“Maureen?” Arthur said with a frown, stepping fully into her office and shutting the door firmly behind him. He had meant to ask Maureen to spend the day with Merlin – keep him occupied while Arthur sorted out some questions. “Is everything alright?”

She turned to face him, a soft smile gracing her lips. “Arthur. Yes, of course. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Arthur weighed his words a moment. Maureen had a plethora of old verses and scripts in her head, he was becoming paranoid. But then, a good dose of paranoia might have served him better in his youth, so perhaps it was wisdom gained now.

“Lunch tomorrow?” Arthur asked with a grin he would have worn easily only a few weeks prior.

“Sounds lovely,” she replied. “Be sure to bring your shadow along. He needs more sun; poor boy is white as a ghost.”

Arthur forced his smile not to falter, nodding quickly and beating a retreat.

**ooOOoo**

The grove looked, as most nature did, far different in daylight than in the shadow of night. There were still tracks sunk into the dirt trail from where Maureen’s Peugeot had been – no hard rains yet to wash them away. There was no trace of the men that had ambushed them, no empty rounds or signs of a struggle. There was no blood-soaked tree where Arthur had lay dying.

There was no tree.

Arthur crouched in the dirt, sinking his fingers into the churned earth. Something had been in this spot - a myriad of prints covered the ground, things had been dragged about, something that looked suspiciously like a handprint where the tree had been. A few partial prints of someone moving barefoot. Robert’s clean-up, most likely, but Robert would have had no need to remove an entire tree – not when rarely anyone ventured this far into the brush. Nor did Robert have the means to do so without heavy machinery or leaving sawdust in his wake. 

If he hadn’t lost so much time, Arthur could have been there himself to see what had happened.

He threw a fistful of dirt into the trees, swiftly getting to his feet.

**ooOOoo**

Merlin was sitting on the floor of Waterstone’s next to what looked like a stack of books ranging from Bowie to the World Wars and several colourful paperbacks splashed with Daleks and Unicorns. Arthur pulled up short, watching the slight frown tugging at Merlin’s lips and the focused turn of page. He moved closer, bending a knee to peer over Merlin’s shoulder.

“Where do you suppose Oxford’s Wombles are?” Merlin asked curiously. 

“Out hiding in their burrows, I would assume,” Arthur said blithely. “They don’t much like humans. Except the Queen. Bloody things love the Queen.”

Merlin turned and gave Arthur a blinding grin. “I bet they’d like me.”

“You would likely be the exception to any rule,” Arthur replied.

“Right. Let’s go pay them a visit. I’d like to have proper representation of things, and they don’t seem to carry any proper Womble literature.” Merlin closed his book with a snap and scrambled to his feet.

“Of course,” Arthur joked. “We’ll just go pack a lunch and…” he trailed off when he saw the determined expression on Merlin’s face. “You’re serious, aren’t you.” Arthur caught hold of Merlin’s arm just above the elbow and marched him out of the shop as unobtrusively as possible. They crossed Broad Street and Arthur halted them by the Magdalen graveyard.

“What are you doing, Merlin?”

“I don’t think I understand the question.”

Arthur sighed, running a hand over his face. “The Wombles aren’t real, Merlin. You know that, I know that – even five year old children these days know it.”

“Of course I know that!” Merlin said with a bit of a laugh, and Arthur frowned as he noticed Merlin rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Let’s…let’s go get something to eat. You can tell me about your day.”

“Yeah,” Arthur said softly. “Let’s do that.”

**ooOOoo**

Lunch was a couple of sandwiches grabbed from a shop on Cornmarket. On their way, they picked up drinks at a small café across from Christchurch’s gates - a double latte for Arthur and a hot chocolate for Merlin. They ended up walking alongside the river, Merlin prattling on about the bizarre life of one celebrity or another – whoever’s biography he had been reading last – while Arthur wondered what he should be thinking.

If this was Merlin – if Merlin, ridiculous as it sounded even to Arthur, had been a _tree_ all this time…what did that even mean? If he was the same man, could he be made to remember? Was that even something Arthur should be trying for?

Arthur stepped aside, letting Merlin take the stairs of the steep bridge over the Cherwell first. When Merlin started making noise about breaking open their sandwiches, they stopped and took a seat on the riverside in the sunlight. With Pembroke college boat house at their back, and the shifting dock beneath their feet, Arthur sat and simply watched Merlin. Simple, content. Arthur hadn’t seen Merlin like that for years – even without the centuries in between. At the end, before Merlin had left…there had been a heaviness about him, a sadness Arthur had never known the root of, and never known how to ask after. He’d covered concern with roughhousing and orders he never really expected fulfilled, and Merlin had let him. 

“Do you remember,” Arthur said as he stared off across the river and further past the field, “sitting on the rooftop of the Eastern tower at sunrise? The sun would hit the lake and river, and the whole world looked cast in gold.”

Merlin’s hand tugged at the grass beneath his bent knees, sprouting up between the cracks in gravel and cement. “I remember my mother, sometimes,” he said instead, careful, “waking me with the dawn. And standing in a sea of golden wheat.”

“Do you remember the first time you saw the sea?”

There was something about the sea, Merlin knew in a vague detached sort of way, ebbing like the tide against his consciousness. He wondered if this was yet another thing Arthur was waiting for Merlin to answer correctly, judging him in ways Merlin could hardly understand. “I don’t remember the sea,” he answered honestly. Merlin shifted the floating dock about under their feet. _I don’t remember. I don’t remember._

There was a blankness in Arthur’s eyes when Merlin chanced a glance in his direction. He knew that hadn’t been the answer Arthur had wanted. _I don’t remember._  
  
Merlin was having difficulty focusing; every time Arthur would ask his strange questions, Merlin would move to think on them and either be beset with a raging headache or a blessed wall of haze would cloak his mind. The thrumming in his chest still hadn’t lessened. The cavernous hole still hadn’t filled in. _I can’t remember._  
  
The one thing he knew was that he didn’t want Arthur to have that hollow emptiness lurking behind his eyes, because Arthur was better than that - he was meant to be fierce and loyal and brilliant like the sun. Merlin wasn’t sure where the thought had come from, but once he’d had it, it rooted itself deep and refused to let go.

So Merlin leaned over and chased the look away with surprise, pressing his lips against Arthur’s and holding him in place with a hand on the back of his neck. Arthur’s hands bracket Merlin’s face almost immediately, warm and strong in the afternoon breeze. Opening up to Arthur seemed like the easiest thing in the world. __  
  
It was Arthur who pulled away, swallowing hard and staring at Merlin’s chin.

“Arthur…” Merlin didn’t think he’d misjudged his welcome – not after the aborted touches and looks Arthur had been shooting him over the past week – but Arthur was clearly having some sort of internal debate and Merlin wanted to know why.

Arthur shook his head and got to his feet, offering a hand which Merlin took quickly. He was staring at Merlin again like he was a puzzle that needed to be solved. “Come with me.”

Merlin didn’t realise Arthur had spoken until he was being dragged from the riverside stumbling to keep up as Arthur moved swiftly between the boathouses, grip firm around Merlin’s wrist. He let out a gust of air as Arthur turned him about, and pushed him up against the building’s back, tucked away and out of sight from the river path.

When he kissed Merlin, it was like he was claiming territory and Merlin was more than willing to stand his ground and push back against the advance.

**ooOOoo**

The only thing Arthur had ever been truly afraid of in his life was the thought of being abandoned. Of being cast aside because he wasn’t quite good enough to satisfy the people he loved and cared for, or because they had found someone better, or stronger, or more open. And time and again, he _had_ been. In the end, he had been betrayed and used and left by the wayside by every person he had ever trusted. And they had each done it knowingly.

It hadn’t just been Guinevere and Morgana and Mordred, though certainly they had cut the deepest after he was already raw. Friends and allies – men and women who had sworn their lives to protect him and Albion - had been used to trick and deceive him, playing their parts when all they need have done was trust him. Trust that with all the information available, he would find a way to aid them, even if aiding them was just to spring the waiting trap – at least he would have _known_ what he was walking into, had a contingency plan if it all went to hell. Each new betrayal scorched, and yet still he held on. _Trusted_.

Right at that moment, Arthur had grown used to being alone and left behind. He had weathered centuries and endured every sort of life imaginable. But he had never had Merlin warm and trusting beneath his hands like this. And Merlin – Merlin had always been true to Arthur. The secret Merlin had kept for all those years – it had never been a betrayal. A lie, but never a betrayal. Merlin had helped keep Arthur and his ideals alive; to build Camelot on a foundation of loyalty and courage and brotherhood.

Arthur knew that in the long run this was likely the worst possible choice he could have made. His relationships didn’t last, they never had. But Merlin had kissed _him_ first, and Arthur was, quite frankly, emotionally exhausted - if this was the only chance Merlin was going to give him, he was going to take it. And maybe Merlin wasn't the best kisser in Arthur's long and lonely history, but he was heartbreakingly enthusiastic, and Arthur knew he had never wanted anything as much as Merlin here with him now. 

His hands were already tracing Merlin’s sides, brushing broad strokes across his stomach, pulling him closer, touching everything he could reach. Arthur wanted everything from Merlin. He wanted everything – but if he scared Merlin off, Arthur might not get another chance for centuries. Arthur didn’t know if he had it in him to wait centuries. He had grown used to being alone, but once again Merlin had come by and shattered his peace, forced his way into Arthur’s life and took centre stage – and damned if he didn’t do this right. So Arthur continued to fight; he bit off each word he wanted to say before it escaped, smothering the sound with Merlin’s lips and skin. _I missed you. I need you. I love you._

 _Don’t leave me.  
_ __  
There was the sound of voices out by the front of the boat house, the sound of someone fumbling with a lock and the metal roll of the boat shed grate. Merlin had tensed under him. Arthur pressed a hard kiss against Merlin’s mouth, hands working Merlin’s trousers open all the same.

“Ar –“ Arthur’s hand cut off Merlin’s panicked words. He paused, staring Merlin down. Arthur didn’t care who passed by, who saw them, who might object. He had no expectations on his shoulders and no delicate alliances to forge and absolutely no reasons why he should give a flying fuck. He smirked. 

“I suggest,” Arthur said quietly, his lips brushing Merlin’s ear, “you stay very quiet.” He gripped Merlin’s hips tightly, pressing him back against the brick wall.

Merlin’s thought process had a terrible tendency to blank in Arthur’s presence. Adding Arthur on his knees, hands wide and warm holding Merlin in place – any objection Merlin may have had was nowhere to be found. Merlin had a terrible feeling that if Arthur had wanted Merlin’s kit off in the middle of the floating dock for all and sundry to witness, Merlin wouldn’t have had the brain function to object to that either.

He bit back a whine as Arthur pressed open mouthed kisses across the inside of his thighs, Arthur’s knees pushing Merlin’s feet wider apart. His hips jerked forward half an inch before Arthur, unfazed, slammed him back into place. Arthur met his eyes, and Merlin read both warning and promise in his look before Merlin had to close his eyes, head lolling back against the section of brown wood siding as Arthur slowly took him inch by inch.

If he had known surprising Arthur would result in this, he would have done it weeks earlier, he would have –

Arthur’s tongue was making itself known. The sounds that Arthur was pulling from him were muffled and broken as Merlin did his upmost to follow Arthur’s suggestion. Merlin gripped the layered wood slats and chanced a glance down at Arthur, flushed and unkempt and staring straight back at Merlin. And Merlin lost it. 

He couldn’t keep himself still, and where half jerks and aborted motions had existed before, Arthur let him have free range. When he was spent, panting and flushed, Arthur licked him clean, tucked him back in his trousers and had the audacity to smirk as he let Merlin slide down the wall. At some point, Arthur must have gotten himself off, because he was buckling his own belt and Merlin felt a flare of disappointment of having missed it. 

Merlin surged forward, pressing a clumsy kiss to Arthur’s mouth. Arthur laughed, light and open.

**ooOOoo**

For the first time in over a month, Arthur woke in his own bedroom, staring out half closed curtains at a grey morning sky. He ran his right hand over his face tiredly. Arthur nearly jumped when he realised he wasn’t alone, that there was a warm heat pressed up against his side.

 _Merlin_.

There was only the mess of hair and the pale expanse of one shoulder that could be seen, but it had to be, he couldn’t have just hallucinated the past few weeks. Arthur frowned. Right? Arthur pulled himself away, tucking the duvet into the space he left carefully as he beat a retreat to the small sink outside in his kitchenette. Arthur splashed water on his face. He remembered other nights as he braced his hands on the counter, nights when he had woken confused and hopeful. Mornings he hoped he would never experience again.

Arthur crept slowly back - knelt by the bedside and pulled the covers back as gently as he could manage. Merlin’s nose twitched. The smile that pulled across Arthur’s face felt like the last chords of tension snapping, and he knew that he was well and truly gone. He crawled back to his spot, pressing a kiss against Merlin’s shoulder when Merlin twisted at the cold air seeping in and another at the base of Merlin’s neck. 

“Merlin,” Arthur said softly into Merlin’s skin. He could hardly believe he was saying that name again, even now. Especially now.

The sound Merlin made was hardly classifiable as words. Arthur let his hands wander, sweeping down Merlin’s flank and back, creeping slowly to press his fingers against Merlin’s hole. He pressed his smile against Merlin’s nape when his fingers breached the heat first his middle and then his ring, finding Merlin still loose and slippery from the night before. Merlin moaned as he subtly pushed back into Arthur’s hand. 

The night before – when he had Merlin pinned beneath him, all long lines and surprisingly graceful limbs. The eager cant of hips and the joy of finding how they fit best. It had nearly come to a halt when Arthur realized that while he, like any hot blooded man, had supplies to ease the way, he hadn’t kept condoms in years. The times he had spent the night with someone, it was more often than not at their place, and since Arthur had no fear of catching any illness with his condition, or indeed leaving offspring, he hadn’t cared either way. But when he’d stopped, Merlin had growled at him, and Arthur found himself grinning as Merlin had rolled them over and taken charge. The first time.

Merlin was awake now, his hand reaching back to grasp at Arthur’s hip in urging. Arthur rolled on top of Merlin, using a knee adjust Merlin’s leg higher as he pressed a line of kisses down Merlin’s spine. 

“Alright?” Arthur murmured, his fingers shifting in a slow slide. Merlin hummed in response. 

“ _If you don’t do something soon, I will,”_ Merlin said in what was definitely not English, and Arthur’s hands froze. Arthur hadn’t heard that language in centuries. He hadn’t –

“Merlin?” Arthur’s voice said weakly. His fingers had slipped from Merlin, and Merlin was rolling Arthur over, hitching their cocks together as he pressed his mouth to Arthur’s. Arthur’s hands instinctively gripped Merlin’s hips, leaning up into the kiss, taking everything Merlin was giving him.

“Mine,” Arthur said against Merlin’s mouth. He used his leverage to roll Merlin back, settling between his legs. 

It wasn’t until well after eleven that Arthur remembered he had offered to see Maureen over lunch, and more importantly, that she knew where he lived. He felt boneless and Merlin looked to be in no better shape. Still, it seemed that Arthur’s love of being as irritating as possible to Merlin simply to see his reaction had survived the ages, and Arthur slapped a hand down Merlin’s hip to wake him saying, “Up we get. The day waits for no man.”

“There’s always a first,” Merlin mumbled into his arm.

Arthur chuckled. He still rolled to his feet and tore the sheets away.

**ooOOoo**

There were any number of places they could have met Maureen for a late lunch, but they ended up at the _Head of the River_ which, once he and Maureen had started their impromptu social outings, had become one of their standbys. Prior to the past month or so, they had met only a handful of times off campus a month. He would call on her two or three times a week at her office and leave notes in her pigeon hole via the Christchurch porter. They should have done this more often, he thought.

When they approached, Maureen had stepped forward, cupping Merlin’s face in both hands and pressing a firm kiss on each cheek. Merlin was a bit bewildered and Arthur asked, “What was that for?”

“He’s good for you,” was all she said, patting one cheek and making towards the riverside patio.

Arthur pulled Maureen’s chair back for her, and helped her settle in before doing the same for Merlin without thinking which earned him odd looks from both parties. He couldn’t bring himself to be bothered. 

“A scholar and a gentleman,” Maureen said with amusement. “And they say chivalry is dead.”

Maureen, in her typical fashion, ordered a deli platter which she would casually pick at for the rest of their meal as she drank and watched the boats go by.

Arthur ordered a steak. Thick and grilled in a way that had changed little over the years.

Merlin seemed to have made it his quest to try things he deemed ‘interesting’ – which resulted in his discovering bacon, leading him to request it as often as it was available when they ate out. For instance, his order that day was the Head of the River Burger with two side orders of bacon, please. 

Arthur stole half of Merlin’s bacon during their lunch.

He had never been able to say it back then, but Arthur’s favourite meals hadn’t been the post tourney feasts or festive celebrations in the citadel. They had been the ones no one else had seen. The ones where it was just Merlin and just Arthur alone in the forest on one of Arthur’s contrived hunting expeditions – the ones that occasionally dragged out from one planned afternoon to two days out in the woods simply because Arthur hadn’t wanted to call it to an end.

Merlin wasn’t the best cook, he wasn’t even close, though he was a great deal better than Arthur ever was and he _had_ improved over the years. It was usually just rabbit, roasted over the fire and eaten leaving greasy fingers and chins. Sometimes Merlin would stumble across a patch of herbs, or root vegetables. Sometimes he knew enough in advance to have packed something away. Those days they had stew in trenchers, sometimes from the castle, sometimes hewn from old bread. On the rare occasion, Arthur would bully Merlin into joining him in the river and they would spend an afternoon stabbing sharpened sticks into the water – ‘improving your reflexes, _Mer_ lin’ – and feast on fresh fish well into the evening.

It was rarely about the hunting, Arthur wondered if Merlin had ever realised that. Arthur enjoyed hunting. Of course he did. He enjoyed stalking stag through the brush and the thrill of crouching his spear as a boar raced towards him. But with that sort of hunting, Arthur would have been a fool if he didn’t keep a knight or two at his side, at least before he knew of Merlin’s particular talents. After, well, it was always more about getting away from the citadel and, guiltily, about spending time with Merlin away from the eyes of court – tucked away in the woods where Merlin could sit too close without the whispers spreading throughout court. Where they could bump shoulders and laugh like two young men without the gaping rift of crown and status between them.

When they parted ways, Maureen told Merlin he was welcome in her office and her home and handed him a fold of paper. Her phone number, Arthur discovered, though he had yet to see Merlin even use a phone. Merlin needed other people in his life, Arthur knew, as much as Arthur disliked the idea. 

He and Merlin strolled along St. Aldgate’s, Arthur walking a bit too close and wondering just how soon he could reasonably suggest they retire back to their small haven of sheets. Not immediately, he thought as Merlin caught sight of something by the Christchurch gates and detoured, side stepping an elderly couple on his way.

It was an inlaid brass sword, a graphic depiction of an old British styled broadsword, not unlike the one Arthur had used against Robert just weeks earlier.

“My Sword I give to him that shall succeed me in my pilgrimage,” Merlin read out as he crouched on the concrete paving stones, running an hand along the worn metal.

 _And my courage and skill to him that can get it_ , Arthur recited in his head as he watched Merlin study the brass. _My marks and scars I carry with me, to be a witness for me that I have fought His battles who will now be my rewarder._

“Who was he?” Merlin asked, dusting his hands and getting to his feet.

“The words are John Bunyan, the meaning…” Arthur pulled Merlin to his side. “This, in particular, is a war memorial, for those who stood and died for what was right – to remind those that are left of duty, of honour.”

“He must have been a good knight.”

“I suppose so,” Arthur said as they continued their walk. He didn’t really know that much about Bunyan, whether he was even a soldier at all in his life. Arthur’s interest in Christian writing over the years waxed and waned – he was impressed in himself that he had even remembered as much of the poem as he had.

Merlin convinces Arthur to take a seat on a thin strip of grass between two walks when it becomes apparent that all the benches along the meadow are occupied. It’s peaceful, sitting here like this in the place Merlin stumbled back into his life.

There is a definite change in Merlin after a few minutes, when before he seemed content to watch the cattle in meadow, and Arthur isn’t certain why. Merlin head cranes over his shoulder at one of the many people who have passed them by as they sat, his face a map of confusion.

“Gwaine?”

“What?” Arthur is positive he misheard Merlin - he had been disappointed too many times to think otherwise. He must have heard wrong. He must have. There was no way that Merlin would remember Gwaine and not Arthur. But Merlin is up and running across the grass and gravel before Arthur can even get to his feet. Running towards a roguish, dark-haired man walking towards St. Aldates. “Merlin, wait!”

“Gwaine!” Merlin skidded to a halt, catching hold of the man’s arm. Arthur pulled up short, breath catching as he realised it _was_ Gwaine. He very nearly shouted, _‘you’re meant to be in Ireland_!’ at the man, but that would help nothing, and meant nothing, considering Gwaine was standing before them with a mildly bemused expression on his face.

“Owen Greene,” Gwaine – Owen, said with a pat to the hand Merlin still had resting on Owen’s arm. “Have we met?”

“I think we may have,” Merlin said just as Arthur said, “No, you haven’t.” It caused Merlin to scowl at Arthur, and Owen to smirk with an irritating familiarity.

Owen snapped his fingers pointing at Arthur with something that looked like comprehension. Arthur worried just what that meant. “I remember you!”

“ _What?_ ” Arthur was fairly certain he didn’t squawk, but it was a near call.

“Arthur P. Agon,” Owen said with a grin. “You spent a few months in Glasgow some years back, roomed with a mate of mine. Threw a smashing do at the Lighthouse. What are you doing in Oxford?”

“You remember that?” Arthur remembered he had met Owen for the one night, less than a few hours, all told. He remembered Owen as having drunk enough that night that he had passed out on Arthur’s couch after a ridiculously handsy cab ride home, caught tight between Arthur and their mutual acquaintance Dan. By all rights, Owen should have been blackout drunk. Apparently not. Arthur dropped the thought as he realised Merlin still hadn’t let go of Owen’s arm, and Owen, despite having been jumped by a complete stranger didn’t seem to mind in the least.

“Look, I’m in town for business for a few days – we should catch up,” Owen was looking at Merlin, and Arthur felt a cold creeping up his spine. 

“I’d love to,” Merlin grinned back at Owen, and Owen glanced at Arthur.

“You’re working the family business now?” Arthur tried for casual. The voice inside was shouting that Merlin was his, and Gwaine should just back up and piss off.

Owen laughed. “I own the family business now. The pater handed it off to me last year and buggered off to warmer climes.” He slipped first Merlin and then Arthur a card, green with gold embossed lettering. “Give this to the Turf Bar or any of mine and you can drink free all night, lads. A golden ticket for a student, yeah?”

Merlin’s thumb traced the letters absently, smiling that idiotic smile of his.

“It also has my number on it,” Owen said helpfully. “Call, we can grab dinner.” 

Arthur felt for the first time in centuries a bolt of white hot rage course through his veins, entirely irrational and disturbingly familiar even after all that time. Gwaine had always been Merlin’s knight. He had admitted once, deep in his drinks – or as deep as Gwaine could _get_ in his drinks – that he had returned to brave death in the tourney as much for the challenge as for Merlin. Because Merlin ‘would have been _sad_ if his princess dinna’ make it through’. In the Perilous Lands, Gwaine was there as a favour to Merlin, and once again the day he was knighted. It was Merlin Gwaine sought out on his time off and Merlin he went to first to share all his ill-gotten gains from the kitchens or cellars.

Usually, Arthur was glad to have Gwaine walk back into his life – now he struggled to supress the urge to deck the man and ruin that charming smile once and for all.

To Arthur’s relief, Owen chose that moment to pull away from Merlin, raising a hand as he took a few steps backwards before striding off on his way. A small part of him hated viciously the fact that he felt any ill will at all towards one of his men, his brothers. A larger part hated the insecurities and doubts he harboured about whether he would be able to hold onto Merlin this time around if someone else, someone like Gwaine, decided to make a play. If Arthur had ever been enough for Merlin, even if he had reached out that night with the red sheets and the warm fire.

What Arthur did was bury that all, deep, deep down as he stepped up behind Merlin and slid his arms about Merlin’s waist, pressing his face against the side of Merlin’s neck.

“Was I at the Lighthouse?” Merlin asked and Arthur tightened his hold for a moment.

“No,” Arthur said softly. “You weren’t.”

**ooOOoo**

“Auribus teneo lupum,” Maureen said as she thread an arm through Arthur’s, the other hand reaching up to jerk on Arthur’s ear. _I hold a wolf by the ears._ “Something’s got your knickers in a twist this afternoon.”

“An old…” _Brother? Friend? Pain in the arse?_ Arthur sought for an appropriate way to classify the rake of a man, “comrade of mine in is town. We ran into him.”

“I hope he’s not as much trouble as your other comrade.”

“I believe that is a matter of opinion.”

“I believe your merry man was the very root of trouble.”

“This one’s a different sort.” In a way, Gwaine and Robert had too much in common, really – the only difference was that Gwaine had less time in each life to compound his mischief. “Owen Greene. He a good man, the encounter just…life is complicated, it always is.”

Maureen watched him sidewise as they walked. “You’re jealous of this man.”

“I have nothing to be jealous of.”

“ _Dum spiramus tuebimur_ ,” Maureen said with a small smirk. _While we breathe, we shall defend._ “Perhaps you need to sort out what you _are_ before you combat it.”

Arthur frowned. He wasn’t being defensive, despite what she may think – acting defensive wasn’t a _habit_ of his either. “Cave ne ante ullas catapultas ambules,” he muttered darkly. _If I were you, I wouldn't walk in front of any catapults._ There was a chance Maureen had become too adept at reading him.

When Arthur had first heard of Owen Greene, he had been heir to the Greene King corporation – a small joint brewery between two families that became a heavyweight conglomerate in the world of local pubs. Over the years Owen’s grandfathers had bought out, absorbed or partnered with so many independents and chains that it was easier to list the pubs they didn’t own than the ones they did. Arthur hadn’t been surprised. Gwaine’s earlier incarnations had tried their hands at taverns and inns through the years. He was nearly always jovial and prone to fighting for the underdogs, and occasionally he was born with a strong financial sense that lent itself well to spearheading his own companies.

Whether he and Arthur got on when they first met was touch and go. Sometimes Arthur had constructed a life around himself that triggered something in Gwaine’s own history that got his back up and refused to be shaken. Sometimes, when Arthur felt the need to try, it took years to get under Gwaine’s skin and turn him around – sometimes, it only took a few drinks.

Arthur’s life in Glasgow hadn’t been much. He’d arrived a drifter, set up a studio on the pretence of being an artist and shuffled through a handful of sublets. Dan - Owen’s friend - he’d stayed with longer than he should have. The man had once been one of the House Guard around the castle when Arthur was growing up - when Arthur was young and impressionable and ready to idolize anyone that could hold a sword. Dagonet. They had got on well.

He hadn’t known that Dan had grown up with Gwaine’s new persona, or that Owen would show up if Arthur threw a party of epic proportions just for something to do. He hadn’t know Owen was even _there_ until they stumbled out, Arthur with some dark haired, small chested lawyer on his hip and Dan supporting a listing Gwaine who, despite all odds, was trying to pick up Arthur, Arthur’s bird, or both at once. Arthur had been too pissed himself to care.

He can’t actually remember if he got his end off with Owen. He hoped the answer was no.

Arthur cleaned himself up the next week, packed his things and moved south.

Maureen, it seemed, decided to let him have his rebuttal. “You ran into him at the Meadow?” she asked instead.

“By the war gardens. We were discussing Bunyan.”

“Death, where is thy sting?” Maureen said with a grin. “Grave where is thy victory?”

“Been saving that one, have you?” Arthur asked.

Maureen patted his arm companionably. “It was a good one. So the boy wonder is still holding up, then, even sharing quarters with you. He really must be magic.”

“Har har,” Arthur said with a quirked smile. If he had his way, Merlin would be sharing quarters with him until the end of time. _I’m going to marry him_ , Arthur thought with a faint wonder. He wanted to wake next to Merlin and his ridiculous smile and ears and hair every day for the rest of his existence. It was the first time Arthur was glad he had an extended life.

**ooOOoo**

[Merlin knew there were some things that Arthur wasn’t ready to share with him. It didn’t bother him – there were some things that Merlin wasn’t ready to share with Arthur.

A week ago, when Merlin first discovered what lay beyond the door Arthur disappeared to at night, he had stood in silence for a moment, staring at the scrap of floor walled in by books and the cluttered desk pushed as far as it would go next to the narrow window. 

It was a mess. Clothes were spilling out of an oversized duffle bag taking up half of the desk, half propped on a folded chair. There was another bundle of cloth, wool and linen stuffed up in the space between the desk’s legs. A mutant looking creature wearing a bowler hat graced a square pillow that rested on a stack of periodicals – bounds papers from the nineteen seventies by the looks of it. There were narrow white rings and rolls of gauze that he recognized as something Arthur had mention he used while exercising tucked up between stacks of books and peppered across the narrow shelf that ran the length on one wall.

For somewhere Arthur claimed to have lived for the past few years, it was rather devoid of personal touches. It wasn’t just this room though, the whole set of chambers were Spartan – it was only since Merlin moved in that things started appearing to make it feel like a home. Maureen Lafayette’s home had been full of images on the colourful walls, mirrors and trinkets, each with a story, each with some meaning – Arthur’s walls were white. His cupboards were bare. Slowly, Merlin had started filling the space without even realising what he was doing. Ceramics and place settings for when they ate in the flat found their way into the cupboards. Strange plastic figures of knights and dragons from Professor Lafayette started moving about the flat, first in the kitchen, then the back of the toilet, then on the windowsill. A potted plant that sat on the squat table in the living room. 

Arthur never mentioned the new additions. He never mentioned them, but Merlin was certain there was a softer expression on his face when he caught sight of something changed. Something new.

That was why Merlin had decided to look beyond the closed door – to see if there was something he could do there that would bring that look back one more time.

What he had found had made Merlin frown.

Merlin wasn’t an idiot, despite the lapses in his understanding of the world he found himself in. He knew that there were some things Arthur wasn’t ready to share with him, but why Arthur’s bedroom didn’t contain a bed when Merlin had been sleeping on a mattress that was softer than he could ever imagine and four times too large for him…Well, that was something that bothered Merlin.

That day, Merlin closed the door and retreated. He spent the next few days thinking over what he had learned.

“Do you sleep like a normal person?” Merlin had asked one morning. Arthur had given him a long suffering look over a bitter cup of coffee. “Yes, Merlin,” he had replied.

Arthur proved it the night after when he fell asleep on the couch, book propped open across his chest. Merlin had thrown a blanket over him and spent the night watching over Arthur – hadn’t retreated to his own bed until well into the early morning.

It wasn’t long before Merlin understood. He had a brief flash of guilt, a longer one of annoyance before settling into a mild curiosity. 

And then they had had lunch by the river, and suddenly sleeping arrangements were hardly an issue. He took his time now, pulling the blankets and linens from under the desk, folding them and setting them aside. Merlin had no intention of banishing Arthur back to the hardwood floor.

There was something wedged at the back up against the wall, wrapped up in more fabric and trapped. Merlin got to his knees, reaching out and wrestling with it until it pulled free. It was long and narrow, a cross section protruding a little more than a hand and a half’s width from one end. There was a weight to it. Merlin let his hand run across the wrappings.

The bundle’s cover came off far more easily than he expected, falling away from polished steel and burnished gold. Except it wasn’t gold. Merlin’s fingers traced across the engraved runes running the length of the fuller. It was gold forged from a dragon’s breath.

It was what he had given to his king.

To Arthur.

In that moment, Merlin broke.]

**ooOOoo**

“Merlin?”

The door to Arthur’s makeshift room was cracked open when Arthur mounted the last few stairs into his flat, and Arthur stared at it blankly for a moment as that sunk it.

“Merlin?” he called again, letting his bag drop to the floor. There was a good chance Merlin was out again – he’d taken to spending time in various coffee shops dotted about the city just talking to people, collecting their stories and opinions on various topics that struck him throughout the day.

Arthur moved to his study-turned-bedroom-turned whatever it was now. He was about to pull the door shut before he paused, staring hard at the wall and the light shifting against it in an unfamiliar pattern. Instead, he opened the door wide.

And felt every muscle in his body freeze as he laid eyes on _it_.

Without thinking, Arthur snatched at the pile of blankets stacked neatly – _and since when did he stack his blankets neatly?_ – on his desk and flung them, retreated out the door, and slammed it shut behind him.

He took a shuddery breath, eyes closed and fingers curled tightly against the wood at his back. Where was Merlin? Why was…

He couldn’t leave it there. He _couldn’t_.

Arthur straightened. Took three counts to steady himself. 

Excalibur was where it had been when Arthur opened the door once more, back ramrod straight and jaw clenched. The blankets had done a shoddy job of covering it, one crossbar jutting out from under the stripped brown wool. Arthur forced himself to stare at it.

He hadn’t seen the sword since that day. He’d wrapped it tight and tucked it away. Every hundred or so years, he had added a layer. And yet here it was - and if Arthur was right, someone had stabbed it into the floorboards to get it to stand upright like that. And wasn’t _that_ the kicker.

Arthur paced over to the mess of sheets and with only a moment’s hesitation, wrapped a hand around the blankets and tugged the sword free. 

Or tried to. He scowled, tugging harder with both hands.

With one jerk, Arthur tore the blanket and sheets away from his sword. When he wrapped a hand about the hilt this time he stamped down the feeling of cold that shot down his spine, the feeling of how the sword welcomed him home, the feeling of Destiny that he knew he had thrown far afield and left behind.

This sword was meant for a king. Camelot’s golden hope. The man his Merlin had given everything for.

And what had Arthur done with it? Brought war to his kingdom, ruin to his home and died alone fighting the last of his family.

Excalibur slid free with ease and Arthur couldn’t help the choked laugh that escaped him. It was his sword and his alone, whether he was worthy of it or not. Swiftly, he wrapped the striped blanket around the blade, setting it down with a muted thump on his desk.

_Where was Merlin?_

**ooOOoo**

Arthur had never been the sort to give up simply because the world told him it was better that way; that it would hurt less in the end just to cut his losses, walk into the sunset and let darkness fall. He had faced men who could not die in single combat and en masse rather than hand over his pride and self-respect. He had faced down a metaphor in its scales and spotted hide and come out the victor. He had done all that and more, and he certainly had no intention now of rolling over and letting bloody Gwaine incarnate take Merlin away from him.

Maureen’s office door caught on a mountain of books, an upturned carpet edge and a stout elephant statue her daughter had sent over from her honeymoon, significantly derailing Arthur’s dramatic entrance. Arthur soldiered on.

“This isn’t funny, Lafayette,” Arthur said in a low voice and Maureen peered at him over her spectacles. She was neck deep in end of term paperwork, a fresh pot of tea sitting off to one side.

“I’m not laughing, Pendragon.”

Arthur strode over to her desk, bracing his hands on the wood. “Do _not_ call me that.” 

Maureen set down what she was doing, not in the least bit cowed by Arthur, and despite the tumult coursing through his mind, Arthur found he hadn’t really expected her to be. “What is this about?” When Arthur didn’t give an answer she took her glasses off, setting them aside as she said, “You spent a week in a daze about not seeing your wizard friend and now that I’ve found him for you, you act as though I’ve stabbed you in the back.”

 _Did you_? Arthur wanted to ask. “Where did you find him?” he said instead. _Did you drag him up like Nimueh did Tristan?_ “How did you know it was him?”

“I have told you that already,” Maureen crossed her arms, levelling an unimpressed stare at Arthur. “And I know it’s the right _him_ by the way you reacted and are reacting. Now sit down and have a drink with me or you will rupture something most people find worth keeping.”

“Where is he?”

Maureen finished pouring her tea first, sliding the cup and saucer around her work as though Arthur wasn’t standing, coiled tight, awaiting an answer. “I believe,” she said calmly, “that he has accepted an invitation extended by a Mr Greene.”

“Bloody Gwaine.”

“Gwaine,” Maureen said with a satisfied nod.

“Where did they go?” 

She took a sip of her tea, staring at him where he stood rigid across her desk. “Do you love him?”

Arthur’s mouth snapped shut. He stared at her as he ran the words through his head, watching her unruffled assessment of him in return. “What has that –“

“It makes sense now.” There was something that shifted in the woman before him and Arthur held his ground. “The way Guinevere, who loved you so dearly, would fall into another man’s arms. The way your kingdom shattered when he left you.”

“Morgana…” Arthur said warningly.

“Did you never go after him? Did you ever tell him?”

“You have _no idea_ what we went through – what Uther and you…”Arthur drew up short, staring at Maureen in dumbfounded silence.

Maureen looked unfazed. She set her cup down. “I’m sorry. Arthur. That was uncalled for.”

“What do you want?” He was cracking. He wasn’t sure how many walls he even had left anymore.

“You love him.”

“Yes,” Arthur said tightly. His knuckles had gone white where he gripped her desk and he forced his fingers to release their hold.

“He will come back.” Maureen turned back to her work. “For you, he always did.”

“Morgana…”

“Go _home_ , Arthur.” Her voice was sharp and she did not look in his direction again.

“She was always my sister, first and foremost,” Arthur said softly. “From the first moment I met her until the bitter end.” Maureen didn’t respond to that, and Arthur wasn’t sure he expected her too. Uther had broken her and by proxy, Arthur suffered the backlash. In the end, they had all been worn threadbare and strained beyond reason.

Arthur went to the gym that afternoon. By nightfall, his fists were bruised and his arms ached and Merlin still hadn’t returned.

**ooOOoo**

There was an unfair swelling of relief when Merlin saw Owen standing at the head of Bath Street, smiling in his crooked way. He should have found Arthur. Arthur should have been the first person he ran to. But Merlin wasn’t yet ready to face him again, knowing the man he thought he had lost forever had, in fact, been puttering about Oxford with him for weeks now and said nothing. He didn’t know what to think. He didn’t know what was happening. The only familiar face had been Gwaine’s, other than Morgana’s aged appearance, and Merlin was certain he wasn’t anywhere near ready to deal with Morgana yet.

Owen didn’t say anything when Merlin halted a few feet away, failing to return his smile. He stepped forward without much ado and enveloped Merlin in a fierce hug. Merlin stood in silence. After a moment, he let his arms drift up and clutch at the back of Owen’s shirt. It was there, in the small side street that Merlin both fell apart and pulled himself together.

When he stepped away, Owen gave him a smile, didn’t mention the patch of damp on his shoulder, and threw an arm over Merlin’s shoulder to keep him close. “I think we need a pitcher,” Owen said as he pulled Merlin along.

At the end of the short street, tucked behind the small inn, there was a little passageway, and Owen steered Merlin to the left and through the narrow close. He installed Merlin in a corner table on the patio that opened just beyond and said, “Wait here.”

Merlin shot Owen a doleful look as two pitchers of amber liquid were plunked on the table in front of him.

“I didn’t expect the princess would let you come out on your own,” Owen said as he slid into the seat opposite. “I know a jealous partner when I see one.”

“He doesn’t know,” Merlin said, watching Owen pour him a pint carefully. “I don’t think we’re…I don’t know. I needed some time out.”

“Fair enough,” Owen said, and that was that.

It was a cider of some sort, Merlin recognized as he took a small drink. Mixed with something, but what, he wasn’t certain. “Why do you call him that?”

Owen shrugged, leaning back with one arm slung over the back of his seat. “I don’t know. It suits him, though. Does it bother you?”

“No.” It was what Gwaine had used to call Arthur, Merlin remembered. 

“Have you ever been to London?” Owen asked suddenly.

Merlin traced through the condensation on his glass. “That’s south and east of here? No. I’ve only been here.”

“I know you,” Owen drummed his fingers as he assessed Merlin. “There’s a pub there by St. Bart’s. I thought of it the other day when I saw you. The Rising Sun. I swear I’ve drank with you there before.”

“Maybe. I’m sure the memory will sort itself out,” Merlin replied. There was a difference to this man than the one in Merlin’s memory, just as there was a difference in the Maureen that seemed so close to Arthur. Merlin wasn’t sure what had happened. Arthur’s occasional probing into Merlin’s own memories hadn’t just been confusing, they had been downright painful sometimes.

Owen shrugged. He took a drink before he snapped his fingers, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a folded magazine. Merlin squinted at it, pulling it closer from where Owen had put it on the table as he examined it. “Percy?” Merlin asked, as he started reading the bright text that overlaid the glossy cover image. Four Four Two. Percival had on a thin singlet with his huge arms crossed over his chest, grinning out at the cameraman. 

“Peter Harding,” Owen said. “Though yours sounds like a better match. You know, I’ve check the sports pages every day for years. This is the first morning I’ve felt like I was missing something. Percy,” Owen mused. “Short for Percival, is it?”

“Do you have anywhere to be today?” Merlin asked.

Owen glanced at the tavern building for a moment before giving Merlin a smile. “No. I’m all yours.”

**ooOOoo**

The sound of the door opening in the early morning had Arthur on his feet in an instant. He hadn’t slept. He hadn’t actually moved from the sofa since he’d collapsed there after the gym.

“Where have you been?” Arthur is sharper than he meant to be. 

“Merlin is a man grown, princess,” Owen said with a casual smirk. That smirk spoke volumes for one who knew Gwaine – and know Gwaine, Arthur did. “He doesn’t need your permission or have to call in his nights out.”

Owen was spoiling for a fight, just as Gwaine always was when protecting someone, or outright being denied or censored in his actions. He did it to test his boundaries and his competition. He did it to judge men and their convictions. Knowing that, it was a fight that Arthur could easily have avoided. A few words, perhaps the promise of a drink, Gwaine might back off – but in this era, with whatever history Owen had, there were no assurances that Owen wasn’t legitimately pursuing Merlin for himself. Gwaine had always been a bit of a rake, and Arthur was filled with over a thousand years of frustration and building pressure, and at that moment he was hardly seeing straight in regards to anyone near Merlin.

Before Arthur had even registered moving, Owen’s head was snapping to the side. Arthur was breathing heavily, watching Owen test his jaw, pushing off the wall from where Arthur’s punch had landed him. Owen’s smirk had returned, and his muscles were bunching.

There was a sharp, “ _Arthur!_ ” from Merlin.

It was Owen that backed down from what likely would have been a rather dirty encounter, Arthur watching the man forcibly relax before his eyes. Arthur wanted a fight, he realised. He wanted the inner Gwaine to go a few rounds with him if only to expel the tight coil of fear and worry strangling him inside. And _that_ was exactly why Owen hadn’t responded. The thought did nothing to ease the tension.

“It’s alright,” Owen said, letting Merlin inspect his face. Arthur just glared at Owen, remembering Gwaine flirting with Guinevere and Gwaine’s voice echoing through the council chambers calling for Lancelot’s blood. Gwaine, who was always first to step up when Merlin asked for help, even before Arthur ever knew that something might be wrong.

“You should go,” Merlin said softly.

“I’m getting that impression,” Gwaine quipped. He glanced at Merlin, offering him a half smile. “You call me if you need me,” Arthur heard as he turned his back and stalked back to the couch, back to the mess of anxiety and frustration he had been stewing in since he had noticed Merlin missing.

Arthur sat on his brown plaid chesterfield, arms on his knees and head in his hands as he heard Merlin see Gwaine out the door. There is silence after that, and Arthur wonders if Merlin hasn’t just left the flat as well. He can’t bring himself to check.

There was a dip on the cushions beside him a few moments later, and he could see Merlin’s feet planted flat a few inches to his right, elbows and clasped hands resting against knees.

“Over a month of sleeping on the floor, and not a word of complaint,” Merlin’s voice broke the silence. “It’s the first time you haven’t drawn attention to that sort of thing.”

Arthur frowned, glancing up from his hands at Merlin’s profile. “When –“

“ _Get used to it_ Mer _lin, even I’m bedding down on rock tonight_ ,” Merlin said in a strange affected voice. “ _You’ve coped well enough for most of your life,_ Mer _lin, surely if I can deign to rough it now and again, you can_.”

“Merlin?”

“You made me drag a mattress all the way to the lower town once when you had to sleep on the floor,” Merlin continued, eyes trained somewhere on the far wall. “I bet you don’t remember that, now.” Arthur was staring at Merlin as he continued speaking, trying to catch up to what Merlin was getting at –knowing, and yet still needing Merlin to _say_ it. “I found your sword.” At that, Merlin turned to meet Arthur’s eyes, his hands worrying themselves absentmindedly between his knees.

“Psychogenic amnesia, the books said - or lacunar, I suppose – it’s not the sort of thing we had a name for, really, and I’m not exactly qualified to assess myself in any regard. I’m sorry, for what it’s worth. I never was adept at dealing with you.”

“Dying didn’t help any, did it.”

Merlin’s hands froze and then forcibly relaxed. “No. I don’t suppose it did.”

Arthur swallowed hard. His fingers ached from where his grip was crushing them, but he worried if he let go they would show how badly he shook. “Do you remember, back then, the night…” Merlin didn’t respond. He couldn’t really, Arthur knew; there were too many nights he could have been referencing. They had shared too much. “Red sheets,” Arthur forced out. “…Are we - are we okay?”

“You tell me.” 

After a moment Merlin bumped his shoulder against Arthur’s. Arthur was surprised enough that he nearly fell over. He hesitated a moment before he rallied, throwing an arm about Merlin’s neck and pulling him close as he knuckled his scalp. Merlin batted at him in protest. 

“Yeah,” Arthur said as he let go, shooting Merlin a look that was threating to break into a grin. “I think we’re going to be fine.”

\--

\--

Francis Young – Hic Jacet Arthurus Rex Quondam Rexque Futurus

Arthur is gone . . . Tristram in Careol  
Sleeps, with a broken sword - and Yseult sleeps  
Beside him, where the Westering waters roll  
Over drowned Lyonesse to the outer deeps.

Lancelot is fallen . . . The ardent helms that shone  
So knightly and the splintered lances rust  
In the anonymous mould of Avalon:  
Gawain and Gareth and Galahad - all are dust.

Where do the vanes and towers of Camelot  
And tall Tintagel crumble? Where do those tragic  
Lovers and their bright eyed ladies rot?  
We cannot tell, for lost is Merlin's magic.

And Guinevere - Call her not back again  
Lest she betray the loveliness time lent  
A name that blends the rapture and the pain  
Linked in the lonely nightingale's lament.

Nor pry too deeply, lest you should discover  
The bower of Astolat a smokey hut  
Of mud and wattle - find the knightliest lover  
A braggart, and his lilymaid a slut.

And all that coloured tale a tapestry  
Woven by poets. As the spider's skeins  
Are spun of its own substance, so have they  
Embroidered empty legend - What remains?

This: That when Rome fell, like a writhen oak  
That age had sapped and cankered at the root,  
Resistant, from her topmost bough there broke  
The miracle of one unwithering shoot.

Which was the spirit of Britain - that certain men  
Uncouth, untutored, of our island brood  
Loved freedom better than their lives; and when  
The tempest crashed around them, rose and stood

And charged into the storm's black heart, with sword  
Lifted, or lance in rest, and rode there, helmed  
With a strange majesty that the heathen horde  
Remembered when all were overwhelmed;

And made of them a legend, to their chief,  
Arthur, Ambrosius - no man knows his name -  
Granting a gallantry beyond belief,  
And to his knights imperishable fame.

They were so few . . . We know not in what manner  
Or where they fell - whether they went  
Riding into the dark under Christ's banner  
Or died beneath the blood-red dragon of Gwent.

But this we know; that when the Saxon rout  
Swept over them, the sun no longer shone  
On Britain, and the last lights flickered out;  
And men in darkness muttered: Arthur is gone . . .

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for Faded Epitaphs by patria_mori](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4278129) by [RedQueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedQueen/pseuds/RedQueen)




End file.
